


The Lesser Evil

by AdeliaMaquiavelica



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Both idiots care for each other, Did I make the first near death by nosebleed fic?, Eventual Jaskier and Yennefer friendship, Geralt likes Jaskier’s voice, Geralt worries cuz his air freshener exe stopped working, Geraskier, Graphic Descriptions of Rape, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, He’s trying so hard., He’s worried out of his mind, Huge plot, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, I promise, Is that a first?, Jaskier is Renfri’s twin brother, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Jaskier’s backstory is heartbreaking, M/M, More than competent Jaskier, Near Death Experiences, No actual major character death, No matter how harmless they seem.., Poor poor Geralt, Renfri is mentioned..., SO so competent, Stregebor, This should be a cautionary tale for allowing strangers to follow you, Violence, Whew prepare yourselves, Yennefer better watch out, and smell, eventually, he definitely gonna flaunt it, he got the power, he just wont admit it, he might be curse happy..., morally ambiguous jaskier, more tags to come, near death experience from nose bleed, rival noble families, they just suck at communication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23842804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdeliaMaquiavelica/pseuds/AdeliaMaquiavelica
Summary: Jaskier watched it all, with the same emotionless, empty gaze, moving not a single finger to help.He watched the horde of Ghouls part for the larger Alghoul, making way for him to issue the killing blow.All the while, Jaskier kept watching, motionless, as the Alghoul stalked towards the unconscious Witcher.His pounding, frenzied heart the only sign betraying his otherwise calm exterior.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 49
Kudos: 220





	1. And I can only watch as you drown

Pheeeeeew. It was around three thousand words... Yeh, that didn’t work out. 

Without further ado, please enjoy.

////////////////////

It was dark in the woods, with light seeming to disappear despite the full moon held aloft in the night. The air was humid with the reminder of the day’s strange and unexpected rainfall, and the ground lay moist and waterlogged. The herbs and weeds rooted to the ground groaned with the drowning they were forced to endure. With silence overwhelmingly loud among the trees, the night seemed to grow drearier as lack of noise in the area formed a void where nature’s call used to sing. The dismal gloom in the woods was such, that even the owls restrained their calls, and the crickets halted their music, for even these creatures knew that there was a monster afoot. 

Even the wolves hid in their dens for fear of retaliation from the great, giant, hulking beast. A creature far larger than even a bear, that lumbered and sniffed the ground. The creature pawed near the trees. A large snarling mouth filled with blade-like and jagged canines, cracked open. Drool and blood from a victim not even an hour before, dripped onto the already waterlogged grass. Its skin was a sickly gray, covered in patches of rusted red and coal black. Spikes covered with decaying gore emerged from its humped back, its sour stench noticeable even several yards away. The creature walked on all fours, yet its movement suggested the ability to walk on two. The hands were brutish and dirty, fingers ending with tapered and deadly claws, almost longer than the individual fingers. All in all, it had the appearance of a hellish beast. A mix between a man and a corpse. 

Its face lifted occasionally, scenting the air. Once assured of the lack of any threat in the gentle breeze, it released a tremulous wail, its sound echoing far longer after it ended. The gentle wind kept blowing, bringing the scents of rain and earth, completely hiding any scents hidden downwind. The Alghoul continued to sniff the ground, completely unaware of any presence due to the shielding of that gentle and calm wind. Complacent in its safety, it never paused to scent the air again after the direction of the wind changed. It simply lumbered around, far too distracted in the new scent of old blood, its desire for a new victim and meal occupying its sole attention into distraction

A distraction, that Geralt was counting on.

It was an ugly beast, he admitted. Its description by Marian doing it justice. 

At the time he and Jaskier arrived at the village, it had seemed abandoned. Its only life appeared to be the quivering forms of the few villagers that braved to look outside at the visiting Witcher, and colorful bard. Yet even that bravery had limits, for once their curiosity was satisfied, they retreated back to their homes, locked the doors and drew their curtains closed, till the village seemed abandoned yet again.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Jaskier abortively lower an impatient hand, originally intent upon greeting the villagers, but unable to as they disappeared on sight. Jaskier snapped his mouth shut, paused, and then smiled shakily up at Geralt. 

“Well, that’s not strange at all Geralt!” 

He smelled of wariness and curiosity, his scent growing heavier in the air in comparison to his natural clean chamomile and primrose. 

He smelled of wariness and curiosity, but not fear. Never fear.

Geralt grunted in response atop Roach, not interested in providing an opinion and giving invitation for the talkative bard to start his endless squawking. Although now slightly more resistant to constant noise compared to before Jaskier, it was still a difficult thing to become accustomed to. The constant walking beside him, steps crunching alongside the dust under Jaskier’s boots. The gentle breathing that Geralt was sure he could hear miles away. And the never ending chatter that the bard seemed to consider a competition against silence. All of those things were a shock compared the total silence that used to accompany him before.

(And Geralt felt himself go back to that categorization. Everything in his life seemed to sort itself into before and after. Before Jaskier, after Jaskier. Even when he was loathe to give Jaskier such importance in the organization of his life, he was helpless against it.)

Before Jaskier, the world had been an endless list. Travel to a village, go to said village’s pub, ignore the overwhelmingly sour stench of fear emanating from surrounding villagers at the sight of him, search for villagers more afraid of hidden monsters than him, for death, accept a contract, fulfill the contract, collect the bounty, and continue the cycle all over again. 

That was the before, and that was the way things should be for a Witcher. It was long and painful, quiet and lonely. It was a life with no companionship aside from that occasionally found in the arms of faceless whores. For any concept of company during the before had been unthinkable. No one would want to follow Geralt. No one would want to subject themselves to such an unstable way of life. No one would want to subject themselves to the company of an emotionless Witcher. And for the most part, the before Geralt had peacefully accepted it. Used to the silence, he learned to find it comforting. Forced into solitude, he grew to find the presence of others bothersome. 

The before Geralt liked the way things were supposed to be. The before Geralt understood his place in life, and why it had to be that way. The before Geralt remembered the last time he sought for something more,

(The memory of the girl in the woods still haunted his dreams)

And the disastrous consequences of his foolish desire. So the before Geralt had made peace with his life, and had no plans to change.

And then Jaskier happened.

—————————————————

Posada was a strange little town, filled with strange people and creatures, who all had the strange pastime of fucking hating each other. The elves hated the humans, the humans hated the elves, the elves and humans hated the monsters. And surprisingly enough, Posada was the kind of shit town where even the humans hated other humans. From where Geralt was seated in the back of the pub, he could see the patrons sitting, hunched protectively over their food like beaten dogs, as though afraid someone would snatch it from under their noses. Tense in their seats, the people in the pub sent wary glares and glances to their fellow humans from the corner of their eyes. Untrusting even amongst their own. The sour scent of fear and distrust had been there long before Geralt arrived to search for a contract, and present in each and every one of the pub’s residents.

So Geralt was not surprised when the tavern remained solemn and glum, despite the colorful bard’s every effort.

He was a young thing. Light brown hair, with eyes that were a deep blue, shimmering with mirth. He was dressed in blue and red, prancing around the dull room as though unaware of his less than happy audience. He was not the first bard Geralt had encountered. Bards like him were one among hundreds. So common, that a man could not throw a stone and not hit one of the them. This one was no different. Same gaudy clothing. Same raunchy shitty songs. 

After a cursory glance over him, Geralt tried to pay him little attention. Once you’ve seen one bard, you’ve seen them all.

Geralt would not have paid him more attention. Not at all, had it not been for the clean warm scent of chamomile and primrose emanating from him.

Geralt’s mutant enhanced senses were so acute that he had the ability to discern the particular smells that made up people’s individual, and unique scents. Yet fear turned even the most lovely of scents sour and strong, altering it into something completely different. After years of becoming accustomed to his enhanced senses, Geralt had grown used to the smell of fear and hatred, present in every human that cared to be near him.

In a town such as Posada, fear and distrust seemed to seep from the floorboards, even without his presence. It overwhelmed even his resistant nose. But stranger still in the shit town of Posada, where every fucking person seemed to have and fear rooted in their scents, the bard’s scent remained clean and warm. The only one in that tavern free from the sour stench of fear. 

Geralt could not remember the last time he had caught a scent lacking in fear. It surprised him to where he actually turned his head to glare at him, instead of keeping a tab on him out of the corner of his eyes. Geralt’s fear induced headache grew worse due to the movement of his head. After long consideration, he forgave himself for shifting in the way of the gentle breeze coming from the open window, carrying that fearless clean scent from the bard towards him to ease the pulsing pain behind his eyes. 

The bard kept playing and singing, seemingly unaware of the relief he brought to the suffering Witcher sitting in the corner of the tavern. 

Geralt continued to watch him, the bard growing somehow more dramatic, as he placed a foot on a chair with flourish and delivered another verse. 

“Meet old nan the hag, to stir up a potion, so that your lady might get an abbborrrtioon-“

Cut off from finishing the song, the bard dodged pieces of bread thrown at him as a particularly angry man screamed,

“Abort yourself!”

Geralt tuned out the protest of both the angry tavern patrons and insulted bard, staring at the rim of his cup of ale until he noticed that the smell of chamomile and primrose had grown stronger. No, not stronger, nearer. 

“I love the way you just sit in the corner… and brood.” 

Geralt made the mistake of raising his head to look at the bard, casually leaning against a wooden beam, eyes clear and unguarded, and expression warm and inviting with a gentle smile upon pink lips. His scent, despite his eyes gazing directly at Geralt, remained free of fear and clean.

Geralt regarded him warily.

“I’m here to drink alone.” 

Not at all deterred, the bard ignored him and pressed forward.

“Good yeh, good. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance,” the bard said, pausing his words as he fumbled for the first time, fingers unable to settle on the mug in his hands, “… except you.” 

And yet, Geralt could not smell any fear from him at all, despite the obvious awkwardness coming from the bard.

“Cmonnn,” the bard whined, brow furrowed while the smile remained on his lips, in response to the lack of reaction from Geralt, “you don’t want to keep… a man with… bread in his pants….waiting.” 

At that last line the bard’s smile disappeared only to be replaced by an embarrassed wince, but that was short lived, as the smile stubbornly returned to his face.

Had Geralt been eighty years younger he would have snorted. 

The bard’s gaze remained glued to Geralt, doe eyes innocent and open, the color of the sky as it acquiesced to the night. His expression remained hopeful, smile never wavering, and his scent as stubborn as his smile, remained cheerful and fear free. 

Geralt had encountered many humans in his long existence. They liked to call him monster, with his yellow eyes, and strange white hair. Yet in his experience, most of the monstrous acts he saw in his long life tended to come from humans more often than not. 

A man slapping and beating his wife in front of him for giving him a daughter instead of a son, while ordering Geralt to kill a Kikimora.

A child begging on the streets homeless, after his parents were executed by an indignant lord, for not paying adequate taxes. 

A girl, beaten and raped for being born on the wrong day.

Geralt had encountered many types of humans. Angry humans, tense humans, greedy humans, monstrous humans. 

Their scent always gave them away. They all try to hide it at first, but their true intentions were always given away by the beat of their hearts, and the panic scent of a lie. 

But so rarely had Geralt ever encountered a human with such a pristine aura, with a clean and honest scent. With eyes that were unguarded and trusting. His heartbeat remained steady, without a hint of dishonesty. 

Geralt reasoned that it had to be attributed to his youth. His eyes must not yet have truly seen all the horrors available in the world. His soul must have not yet blackened by the tragedies of others. So inexperienced with the true cruelty of the world. Too inexperienced to know of the strength that Geralt possessed, because surely if he knew, he would not be so generous with his smiles. So inexperienced and trusting, he did not suspect ill of anyone, not even the man who had yelled at him earlier, who was also incidentally hiding a knife under his coat, while his eyes tracked the bard discreetly. 

And thus as the bard continued to fearlessly pester him for comment on his fucking awful song, blissfully unaware and uncaring of a monstrous Witcher, and the bloodthirsty thief, Geralt realized,

“This fucking naive shit is going to get himself killed.”

And Geralt was disturbed to realize that the very notion of harm coming to this obviously young human, bothered him. 

Unaware of Geralt’s internal dilemma, the bard slid into the seat in front of him, hands gesturing as he said,

“You must have some review for me! Three words or less.”

Annoyed at the bard completely disregarding all the signs pointing towards him not being welcome, Geralt kept his gaze impassive, hoping it would finally deter the bard and allow him to continue with his peaceful silence. It worked with everyone else.

And never mind the fact that the moment he left the tavern, he would probably be mugged and possibly murdered. 

You’ve seen countless humans die, it doesn’t matter, he tried to convince himself, What is one more to the list?

After a pause, Geralt grunted,

“They don’t exist.” 

The bard’s brow wrinkled, tilting his head slightly to the right as he appeared puzzled.

“what don’t exist?”

Geralt schooled his face into remaining cold and inexpressive. 

“The creatures in your song.”

The smile turned into a smirk, as the bard scoffed, voice deepening, full of confidence.

“And how would you know?”

Geralt remained silent, sure that the conversation had ended, only to be surprised when the bard’s eyes brightened with understanding as he licked his lips. He rapidly tapped the table with his finger, seemingly unable to contain the glee from showing in his hands, as excitement flooded his scent. 

And again, Geralt was surprised with this human, because so rarely had any of those emotions ever been directed towards him. 

“Oh fun! White hair, big ol’ loner, two… very very scary looking swords-“ the bard’s face twisted, pausing too long on his swords, before his mouth returned to that cocky grin.

And at this Geralt stood up, because obviously he had been wrong. This bard was not naïve enough to be unaware of Witchers. And as the bard continued with his elbows resting on the top of the table, excitedly about to remind everyone in that shitty tavern of Geralt’s existence, Geralt could not help but feel cornered. And how ridiculous that was. That it was the monstrous, hulking Witcher, feeling panicked due to a strange, young, thin looking human, who spoke to him without a hint of fear in his chamomile and primrose scent. 

“I know who you are,” the bard said, with the same expression of a cat that had just gotten the cream, mouth pulling into a crooked grin. “You’re the Witcher.. Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt walked away, but paused slightly as he caught the gaze of the man with the hidden knife in his coat, eyes still tracking the bard. Geralt debated dragging the bard out with him before abandoning him in some ditch. A ditch, but a safe ditch at least, free of murderous humans. 

“Called it!” the bard exclaimed behind him triumphantly, the annoyingly cheerful and sunny smile obvious in his voice despite Geralt not being able to see his face. 

Geralt promptly left the tavern.

The pompous little shit could get himself killed for all he cared. 

——————————

The pompous little shit did not end up getting himself killed, because after that scene in the tavern, the bard stuck to him like a leech.

No matter how much he glared, or growled, Jaskier (as he learned was his name) remained cheerful and sunny, seemingly undisturbed by Geralt’s gloomy disposition. 

Not even after punching the little shit, did he become afraid. He took it in stride, coughing and wheezing as the force of the punch pushed him backwards. Geralt kept walking, but as the wheezing for breath failed to abate, Geralt felt something like panic strangle his heart, and worried whether perhaps he had put too much force into the blow. 

Geralt had never intended to truly hurt him, but the thought of Blaviken, the mere mention of what had occurred there, broke through the thick lock of control he kept over his anger. Not only that, he had a pattern in his life, silence and solitude. It was something that the chatty human still wheezing behind him, did not appear to understand. 

But just as Geralt was beginning to fret, Jaskier recovered, caught up with him, and continued on as if nothing happened. He talked about making songs for Geralt, and changing how people viewed him and other such nonsense. And despite Geralt’s best attempts, he could not glare him, growl him, threaten him, or ignore him, into running away. He continued talking about devils and hands and reputations, not once caring when Geralt in his absolute fury at the human not leaving him in peace, threatened to murder him for touching Roach. 

And yet despite his fury, Geralt promised to himself to never hurt him again. After he regained control of his emotions, he thought about the way in which Jaskier had mentioned Blaviken. His eyes had lit up with the prospect of writing Blaviken into a song, arms spread wide and his voice raising in pitch with excitement. He was young, Geralt had to remind himself. More likely than not, Jaskier had no idea what had occurred in Blaviken. He had meant no harm in his statement, which left Geralt feeling foolish for being baited by an 18 year old whelp.

——————————

“Umm hello? Geralt? Did your crotchety self suffer an aneurysm? 

Brought back to the present, Geralt turned to look down where Jaskier stood to the left of Roach, lute in hand, the instrument practically cradled in his arms like a child. It was a peculiar object, given to Jaskier after their first adventure. Jaskier never let that lute out of his presence.

The subtle, swirling chaos weaving around Jaskier, that made Geralt’s medallion vibrate gently above his chest, also never left his presence.

—————————-

Geralt could only assume that the lute was enchanted. After all, it was given to Jaskier by elves, and he would not be surprised if Filavandrel added any extra protection or wards to such a precious instrument. 

Jaskier seemed completely unaware of it. In the beginning, Geralt had been wary of Jaskier, chaos gently twirling around the human’s form, to the point where Geralt had begun to doubt his Witcher training, since he had not noticed the chaos around Jaskier when he met him at the tavern. However, he eventually connected the dots and came to the conclusion that the chaos originated from the lute, and not the bard. It made sense as well, considering how infectious most of Jaskier’s tunes were. 

Jaskier would perform in every tavern and inn that they travelled to, and the bard never failed to have them all in a drunken stupor, the masses readily and happily tossing their well earned coins into his lute case. Geralt would have been impressed, were it not for the gentle vibrations from his medallion morphing into a stronger hum whenever Jaskier performed. 

After much observation, Geralt concluded that the bard used the lute’s chaos without meaning to. Geralt could not come to any other more nefarious conclusion. The man hated any sort of violence. He was absolute shit with any kind of weapon, and screamed shrilly whenever some monster or another made it past Geralt and launched itself at him despite Geralt having told him hundreds of times to stay behind because it was dangerous.

Just to be completely sure, Geralt purposefully let a monster past him during his second contract with the bard. It had not been poisonous, and was rather small. However, it had a nasty bite and smelled worse than the pig pen inside a barn. Jaskier had scrambled in a mad frenzy, his first instinct to run away. Just as the creature was to bite through Jaskier’s jugular, Geralt speared it from the back. The monster had twitched on his blade, before stilling in death.

Someone with a hidden power, would have no doubt revealed it by then to defend themselves against any near death experience. 

But all that came from Jaskier was the quickened pitter patter of an accelerated pulse, and the weak scent of panic in the air.

Jaskier had clutched a hand to his chest, fist gripping the front of his doublet, as he gasped breaths in and out, staring at Geralt in surprise. Geralt had dispatched the corpses, intent on ignoring the bard, and tied them to Roach, while he tried to extinguish the traitorous, guilty thoughts burning through his mind. 

No, Jaskier was no monster or mage. He was simply a human bard with absolutely no sense of self preservation, and an enchanted lute. 

————————————————

Geralt hmmed back, gently urging Roach forward to the desolate town. 

“It must be glorious to look inside your head Geralt,” Jaskier continued, subconsciously moving along with Roach as she trotted forwards, head raising and hand gesturing in a circular motion towards Geralt’s brow, as he continued to talk to Geralt. “

“And I only say this because I hope you know I actually can’t read your mind Geralt!” He exclaimed, his voice going higher the way Geralt had learned was his way of showing mock frustration. And it was easy to see that he was not truly bothered by Geralt’s lack of response, for the easy smile remained on his face, as the words left his mouth. 

“Sometimes I think you forget I cannot read your mind.”

Geralt only grunted in reply, not caring at the sigh from Jaskier in response to his answer. 

“Ugh Geralt please! I am in need of social interaction, on the road for five days, no bath, no bed, and only you for company,” Jaskier waved his arms over, his voice growing louder the more he gestured, while his mouth morphed into a pout. 

“I’ve even started talking to Roach out of desperation, its absolutely not fair Geralt! I mean, she is a perfectly gentle and decent lady, but please, have mercy on the poor human bard following you, and please deign yourself to speak to me in complete sentences at least.”

Geralt could feel Jaskier’s gaze boring into the side of his head, and yet Geralt stared straight ahead, straining hard to hide the grin attempting to emerge due to Jaskier’s dramatic tantrums. At being ignored, Jaskier squawked indignantly, waved his arms above his head again, and went on another tirade having to do with boorish dull Witchers, and how terrible they were to keep as company.

Geralt would like to think he teased the bard because he hoped it would give him the incentive to leave, but the more he traveled with the Jaskier, the more effort he had to put into not grinning at every ridiculous thing that seem to spew from his mouth. But the mere difficulty in keeping a straight face, at enjoying something other than the loneliness, terrified him until he shoved his amusement into a box, locked it, and threw it into the furthest corners of his mind.

“Gerraallltt, come on, you have got to be joking at this point, even you aren’t this quiet. Geralt, please tell me we are going to be able to stay at an inn tonight? My poor feet can’t handle much more of this road.”

At that remark Geralt focused his senses on the bard, turning his head to look at him and well as check his scent. His sudden movement stunned Jaskier, who blinked in surprise at having the Witcher’s full attention. Despite being startled, smiled back and stayed silent as Geralt quietly observed him. 

Weaker men before the bard had quivered at having the Witcher’s complete gaze, but not Jaskier. Geralt was not sure whether he was brave, stupid, or was just lacking in self preservation, but the bard held Geralt’s gaze calmly and easily, for some reason not questioning why Geralt so abruptly focused all his attention on him. 

He quickly checked for the smell of any blood from blisters due to the road, and was relieved when all he could catch was the good natured humor coating the bard’s natural chamomile scent. There was no fear, no pain, the bard was only teasing. Geralt relaxed, content and sure that Jaskier was only exaggerating.

Geralt allowed himself a snort of amusement.

“You have only yourself to blame. When we were over at the merchants square, I told you to buy the hiking boots, and what did you do? You bought those flimsy dress shoes.”

Geralt returned his gaze to the front of the path, silently noting how abandoned the village seemed. There was the scent of old fear in the town. Yet, it only seemed old because few villagers ventured out of their homes, for the scent of fear was strong and new near the doors of the villager’s houses. 

So focused on the strangeness of the village, that he barely heard Jaskier’s shocked gasp.

“The Witcher speaks!” Jaskier grumbled, “My dear Witcher, you cannot expect me to wear such monstrosities!” 

In his hurry to get the words out, Jaskier nearly tripped on a lose pebble in front of him. Geralt’s left eyebrow rose in response, the only sign of how amusing he was finding the whole conversation.

After regaining his balance, Jaskier continued.

“They were Black Geralt! Black! Ask me what outfits I have that match with black! Well for your information, absolutely none.”

With a dry drawl, Geralt replied,

“It might surprise you to know Jaskier, that I could care less about how shiny and colorful your shoes are, if they wear quickly and slow us.”

Jaskier huffed indignantly, “Well of course you wouldn’t care,” putting special emphasis on the you by deepening his voice, “You have absolutely no eye for clothing, At the beginning of our glorious joint travels, I thought Witchers were colorblind.”

Geralt only grunted back, eyes straight ahead, while Jaskier went off on another monologue. The bard’s scent remained clean chamomile and primrose, heart beat steady and strong. 

Yes, Geralt found that the constant noise that now accompanied him on his travels, was difficult to grow accustomed to. The sound of steps, the whisper of breath, the thrum of a pulse, and the endless lilting tones of a voice. These all disturbed his precious silence, and if Geralt tried hard enough, he could convince himself to try yet again to get the bard to leave. To let him return to his list of a life, since the bard disturbed his peace so much. It would be for Geralt’s benefit, to leave this fool of a bard somewhere far behind.

And he ignored the way his heart would race into something near panic, whenever he could no longer discern the gentle sound of the bard’s breathing next to him. 

The bard at is side quieted, steps growing closer to Roach a he leaned towards Geralt, eyes eyeing the town as he muttered,

“What desolate, and miserable presence this town has Geralt. I would write it into song, if it were not guaranteed to get us thrown out of every tavern on this side of the continent for being absolutely depressing.”

Geralt hmmed in agreement, “These people are suffering,”

And it was true, the heavy cloud of anguish and fear hung over the village like a shadow over a man.

“Well no doubt Geralt, there’s no one outside. Which begs the question, what do they fear?”

Their slow and gentle meandering had brought them to the entrance of the village’s inn, a lacking and bereft building with peeling walls, and a sun bleached roof. The dirt around the inn was so dry, that the dust seemed to stay heavy and present in the air despite the lack of movement from recent of arrivals. 

“I imagine we’ll find out soon enough.” Geralt replied, dismounting and handing Roach’s reigns hesitantly over to a thin and sickly looking stable hand. He reeked of anger and frustration, despite the lack of expression on his face. 

As they entered the inn, Geralt endeavored to not stay there too long, despite Jaskier’s pleading. No amount of contract money was worth a stolen horse. 

—————————————-

The mood inside the inn was morose. 

Where inns such as Posada were inhabited yet uneasy, this one was bereft of people, and the few employees inside the inn were dusty and dirty. Their eyes were empty as they stared at the swirl of the wooden tables in front of them. It was eerily silent, for despite it being clear that they were all neighbors, they held no conversation with each other. The only sound coming from a thin woman in the corner sweeping the endless dust that drifted through the door when Geralt and Jaskier entered, with a crooked and shabby broom. 

So strong was the silence, that even Jaskier was over-whelmed for a moment. Mouth remaining shut despite his obvious desire to state the obvious. 

Geralt turned to tell Jaskier to ask for a room for the night, only to be see a somber look upon the bard’s face. It was so out of character for Jaskier, that Geralt could not help but pause for a second. His lips became a thin line. His gaze was unfocused, as though staring at a distance far away. His eyes were a darker color than his usual sunny sky blue. Jaskier abruptly caught Geralt’s intrusive gaze, and just as quickly as Jaskier’s somber face appeared, it was gone, an easy smile returning to the bard’s face. 

“I’ll go ask for a room for us Geralt,” Jaskier beamed, smile frozen on his face as his hands tightened their grip on the strap of his lute case. He hurriedly turned his back to Geralt, and quickly stepped away to speak to the inn keeper. 

Geralt followed behind, but did not intervene. It was always easier to buy food and lodging if he let Jaskier do the talking

Jaskier put his hands on his hips as he addressed the bone thin crone at the head of the tavern. 

“Well hello there madam! I’m here to purchase food and drink from this fine establishment, for my friend and-“

“There is only stew, no ale, and one room,” the inn keeper croaked.

“Well that won’t be a problem, will it Geralt?” Jaskier turned around and sent Geralt a grin. 

Geralt stayed silent, keeping his gaze focused on the old woman in front of him. She was weathered, skin the texture of leather, with a hunch on her back. He mentioned nothing of how strange it seemed, that the inn was bereft of people, and yet there was only one room available. 

“Are there any monsters causing problems nearby?” Asked Geralt, as he accepted the room’s key, and shuffled forward some coin as payment. While he watched the old woman search for something along a dusty shelf, Geralt heard a slight creaking in the floor boards, behind a closed door that the withered woman seemed desperate to keep hidden with her body.

“There is nothin’ here for you, Witcher,” The crone returned with a rag and a jug of water, which she used to wipe down the table aggressively, avoiding Geralt’s gaze while not even collecting the coin in front of her.

The heavy scent of a lie permeated the air. 

Jaskier shuffled his feet and picked at his nails, staring at them before looking back at the old woman, “Well, it’s only that everything is so quiet around the-“

“There is absolutely nothin’ here for you!” The crone banged the jar of water harshly, with enough force to spill some along the sides, as she glared at the Witcher and bard.

“Nana, I’m ‘ungry, and so is Munty.”

Eyes widening in fear, she abandoned her task and dashed to the door behind her. Geralt remembered the creaking floor boards he heard earlier, not surprised to spy a child through the newly open door. The weathered inn keeper lowered herself to kneel to the height of the child, a movement that wore on her knees and made her wince in discomfort. She steadied herself before gripping the child’s shoulders tightly.

“What did I tell you about leavin’ your room!”

The toddler’s brown eyes watered, and he brought the bunny stuffie clutched in his hands up to his chest, cradling it protectively while he avoided his nana’s gaze.

“But we were getting lonely, and we wanted some suppa’.”

The innkeeper’s stiff lips and stone eyes softened. She took one hand off the toddler’s shoulders, and ruffled the child’s hair fondly.

“Oh don’t you worry now sweet child, no crocodile tears here. I’ll bring some warm stew to your room before long, now go back inside.”

“Ok,” the child muttered, reluctantly walking back to the open door, until he caught sight of Geralt.

“You’re a Witcher…” he said in awe, eyes wide and far too large for such a small face.

Geralt blinked in surprise at the lack of fear in the boy, and nodded.

“Lucas go back to your room now!” The woman snapped, patience running out. “This here Witcher has no business here.”

The little boy struggled in his Nana’s grip, determined to stay where he was.

“But he’s a Witcher,” Lucas stomped his feet, face scrunching up. “He can ‘elp us.” 

“Indeed, he is a Witcher,” Jaskier soothed, cutting in before the old woman could say anything else, and the toddler’s sudden tantrum worsened.

“And you wanna know something else Lucas?” Jaskier asked, a small smile on his face, his voice gentle as if he were talking to a spooked animal. It was the first time Geralt had ever heard him be that quiet, the Witcher used to him talking as if he were belting out every word.

“What?” Lucas replied shyly, momentarily distracted, his voice slightly distorted over the rabbit ear in his mouth.

Jaskier walked over to Lucas, until he too was crouched beside him. Then, he turned his waist and pointed one hand over to Geralt as if presenting him before some grand audience, while the other cupped over his mouth to whisper into the boys’s ear conspiratorially. All the while, ignoring the death glare the old women sent him. 

“Yes indeed, he is a Witcher, but not only is he some regular Witcher, he is also the best Witcher in the world.. he’s fought dragons and trolls, pixies and wyverns, and prevailed against every one of them.. all the while saving soo many people..but you must keep it a secret, only between you and I.” 

The child gasped and looked back at Geralt in wonder, before hiding back behind Jaskier’s hand and asking, “but why must we keep it a secret?” His eyes focused on Jaskier.

Jaskier swiveled his head, looking around despite there being no one else near except Geralt and the crone. He then turned to look at Geralt suspiciously, but his grin gave him away. He then motioned with his finger for Lucas to come even closer.

As soon as Lucas drew nearer, Jaskier covered both his mouth and boy’s ear with his hand before whispering in mock seriousness, “because if we ever told him, his head would grow far bigger than it already is, and become far too large for the rest of his poor body to handle.” 

Geralt mentally rolled his eyes. Jaskier knew well enough that no amount of whispering would be able to hide his mutterings from Witcher ears. Besides, if anyone was in danger of developing a big head, it was Jaskier. 

But the effect was immediate, the boy’s face lighting up with mirth as he giggled

“So Lucas, if you’re having any problems around here, any at all, you know our Witcher is up to the task,” Jaskier appeared to still be speaking to Lucas, but his eyes sought out the old woman’s and stayed there, until he wore her down. Her stubborn scowl relented, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. 

“We ain’t got no coin Witcher,” she admitted, all the fight gone from her, “like I said, there is no job for you here.”

“So there is a monster here,” Geralt grunted, voice rough and gravelly.

Lucas bit his lip. He eyed his nana, the Witcher, and then his nana again, before escaping his nana’s hold and rushing towards the Witcher, small fists grasping Geralt’s trousers along with his bunny.

“Please Lord Witcher!” Lucas screamed, voice shrill and high.

“Lucas!” The crone roared, but not in anger. Her eyes swam with fear as eyed the imposing form of the Witcher towering over her six year old grandson. 

Geralt’s face relaxed, attempting to appear as non-threatening as possible, as he stared at the cherub face now lined with tears. He did not move to dislodge the child’s fists from his clothes. 

“I’m no lord little one,” he said gruffly but gently.

The child’s brow furrowed in thought, before his eyes brightened.

“Then please sir Witcher! Please, you have to help us!”

Geralt was about to say he was not any type of ‘sir’ either, but was interrupted by the old woman.

“Lucas, get back here now!” The crone hissed, fists clenched at her side. Her tone urgent, and her gaze panicked, yet she herself clearly unwilling to draw any nearer to Geralt.

“Please Witcher sir!” The boy’s voice was desperate and pleading, completely ignoring his nana. 

Geralt eyed the child’s trembling form, watery eyes gazing at him stubbornly, despite the sharp new scent of fear coming from him. 

It was easy at first for Lucas to be lulled by Jaskier’s words of a courageous Witcher, defeating dragons and fighting trolls, but up close, Lucas could see Geralt’s pale skin. He could see those slitted golden eyes, and snow bleached hair. He did not mean to be afraid, but Lucas could not help it. 

“Please,” Lucas whispered, at seeing no reaction from Geralt.

The boy swallowed, as his eyes filled with even more tears and he pulled at Geralt’s clothes beseechingly. 

“It killed my sister,” he choked, a hiccuped sob escaping him. 

Jaskier stiffened. 

“It left none of her!” the child wailed, “nuthin’ except Munty!”

Geralt froze, unsure and completely inexperienced at how to soothe the wailing child in front of him. He turned to Jaskier, because between the both of them, the colorful, affectionate bard was by far the best at soothing children. He turned, only to have his world shift on its axis. 

He was hit with an overwhelming wave of fear. At first Geralt was confused. He searched for the old woman, because surely the fear was coming from her. At finding her still frenzied but not the source of the smell, the emotion roiling in his gut turned to disbelief. The overpowering, sour stench of fear was coming from the bard.

Jaskier’s wide unfocused eyes, so blown that there was almost no blue left, stared off into the distance, as though seeing some vision visible only to him. His hands let go of his lute strap, only to tremble spastically in front of him, not quite at his sides. His breath seemed frozen in his chest, unable to make a sound, yet his mouth gaped open as though about to scream in reaction to some hidden enemy.

Geralt didn’t think, he didn’t have a thought in his mind that told his legs to move. They did it on their own. Because Geralt recognized that look. Empty troubled looks that spoke of loss and bloodshed, spastic trembles that never seemed to end. He’d seen those looks before, but never on a bard. 

Never on Jaskier, who always smelled of sunshine after a long winter. 

Never on Jaskier, who always took the time to braid the springtime flowers into Roach’s mane, because he said “Oh away with the scowl Geralt, Roach is a lady, and a lady deserves to have her gorgeous locks in order.”

Never on Jaskier, who let the local children of whatever town grip and tug at his lute to entertain themselves, despite the hours of cleaning and tuning he would have to do afterwards. 

Never Jaskier, who was gentle and kind, and who barely knew how to hold a knife “pointy part away.”

Never Jaskier, because in a land of shit and piss, Geralt already missed Jaskier’s clean and warm chamomile and primrose scent.

Never Jaskier, because out of everyone in the world, his face was the last one that Geralt wanted to see frozen in the memory of sorrows past. 

Geralt did not remember how or when he got to Jaskier, only that once he did, he grasped the bard’s shoulders, panicked, and angry, and unsure, because he didn’t know a damn thing that could help. He could not slay the monsters in Jaskier’s mind, not matter how much he wished to. 

“Jaskier,” he murmured, hoping to draw him back to the present.

“Jaskier,” he said, louder and more insistently, gently shaking his shoulders. If Geralt were panicking before, then he lost his mind when the only result of his jostling was Jaskier’s head lolling limply atop his shoulders. 

Geralt was so lost in this worries he did not notice Jaskier’s eyes focusing. Only when Jaskier’s fingers gripped his forearms, did Geralt notice that the bard’s gaze was once again in the present. 

Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s wrists, and with more force than expected, Jaskier pried Geralt’s hands from his shoulders. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier hissed, hands still trembling slightly, “let me go.”

Geralt jerked his hands back as if they’d been holding burning coals.

Jaskier took a couple steps away from Geralt, trembling slightly and hugging himself, quickly putting distance between him and the Witcher. He took a breath and closed his eyes. 

A second later and they reopened, calm again, staring resolutely at anything except the Witcher. 

“Geralt,” he said, voice cold as ice, “I do believe you are long overdue to have a little chat with this woman.”

It as wrong.

It was like a stranger was moving the bard’s mouth stealing his voice. If Geralt hadn’t known better, he would have thought the person in front of him to be some imposter, a Doppler. 

And there was no fear left in Jaskier, but his scent was wrong, it was still wrong. There was no sunshine, no chamomile. The sense of wrongness just would not go away. Because Jaskier never smelled afraid. Jaskier never smelled angry. And most of all, Jaskier had never avoided his eyes before, the way he was doing now. 

Geralt couldn’t smell the chamomile, or the sunshine… Jaskier didn’t smell like Jaskier. It was all wrong.

Geralt’s heart dropped to his stomach.

It was as if the sun had stopped shining.

“Marian,” the old woman muttered, sees shifting between Geralt and Jaskier, “My name is Marian.”

While Geralt’s attention had been occupied by Jaskier, Marian had rushed over to her grandson and pulled him back into her grasp, stifling the child’s sobs.

“Again,” Marian croaked, “We have nothing to pay you.”

“I’ll do it, “ Geralt grunted, ears still trained on the quickened pulse of the stock still bard staring at his fingers four feet from him, utterly silent in the appearance of calm, yet his thundering heart giving him away.

“We don’t take charity, never have,” Marian scowled, the wrinkles on her face deepening, “especially not from mutant monsters like you.”

“This isn’t charity,” Geralt growled, ignoring the insult, “If left alone, whatever monster it is will continue killing, till someone becomes desperate enough to ask for my help. If I don’t kill it now, I will be forced to kill it later, when it’s stronger and smarter and far more dangerous to slay. If it is able to reproduce, then the resulting creatures will not limit themselves to this town, and spread to surrounding villages until not even an army of Witchers will suffice.”

The woman’s face paled at the thought. 

“It will keep killing,” Geralt continued, face stern “I’ve yet to meet a monster that leaves after a few meals. It’ll continue feeding till all that is left of this town is a trail of corpses, and all because you would not accept help for the sake of your pride”

“So Marian,” Geralt asked, voice grim and tired, “Which monster do you fear more, the mutant in front of you, or the man eater out there,” Geralt pointed to the nearest window, “picking you off one by one?”

Marian swallowed, the silence in the inn deafening as neither Witcher nor grandmother backed down. The few workers in the inn had fled to rooms upstairs, wary of any encounter with the Witcher. Eventually Marian looked away, frustration evident on her aged and weary face. 

“We don’t know what it is,” Marian warned, still consoling the now silent child at her side, “None of us have seen it and lived to tell the tale.”

“What does it leave of the bodies,” Geralt asked patiently, “How many creatures?”

Marian moved to answer, until a whimper interrupted their conversation.

Marian glanced down at her trembling grandson, sighing in understanding.

“How bout’ we continue this conversation in private?”

Geralt glanced down at the child shivering in Marian’s arms. He was pale and jittery, crying silently, no doubt reliving his sister’s death.

“Dearest Lucas,” Jaskier said with far too much liveliness for a man that not minutes ago had been reduced to a quivering ball of fear. 

“How about you and I go get ourselves a meal? Aren’t you still hungry? I know I’m famished!” 

The child nodded, face partially hidden behind his bunny stuffie. 

Lucas glanced up at his nana, “Nana, can I go?”

Marian glared at Jaskier suspiciously, grip tightening on her grandson’s hand. 

“We will just be going to that table over there,” Jaskier assured her, pointing to the furthest table in the inn, “He’ll be in your line of sight.”

Marian hesitated, torn between having her grandchild leave her side, or letting him overhear the gruesome details of his sister’s death. 

At her continued distrust, Jaskier’s back straightened.

“I promise.” Jaskier said, tone changing, his voice harder than Geralt had ever heard it before. 

“I promise” he asserted, eyes like a frozen glacier rather than a summer sky. “no harm will come to your grandchild, certainly not while he is with me, you have my word.”

And there was no way Jaskier could promise such a thing, Geralt thought. He couldn’t even defend himself, much less a child. And yet there was no doubt in Jaskier’s voice, or any falsehood in his scent. 

In his strange, empty yet present scent. 

Marian paused, searching for something in the bard’s face. After a moment, she nodded slowly, having seemingly found it.

She turned to her grandson, “Lucas, you’re going to go with…?” Marian turned to the bard, waiting for his name. 

At this, Jaskier grinned, eyes filled with instant cheer, as if someone had flipped a switch.

“Jaskier is the name, fine madam!” He turned to Lucas with a flourish, tilting his head slightly at the youth before launching into an intricate and court worthy curtesy “and fine sir, at your service!”

The boy’s face remained somber, the thought of his sister’s death still too heavy in his mind to be distracted by even Jaskier’s antics.

“You’re a bard?” The boy asked.

“My poor, sweet, unaware, dear child,” he mockingly despaired at the heavens, hands gesturing towards the ceiling, “you are only in the presence of the most decorated bard in all the continent!” Jaskier bragged, head high and eyes beaming, both hands now at his waist, “praised by kings and queens,” he continued, “voice complimented by sirens themselves!” 

“We get it bard,” Marian grumbled dryly, exasperated by his theatrics.

But boy’s mouth hung open, not yet cheered but successfully distracted, “What’s a siren?”

“Come with me,” Jaskier held a hand out to Lucas, “and I’ll tell you.”

Lucas bit his lip, and looked up at his grandmother, silently asking for permission again without uttering a word. Marian mouthed a gentle go, and it was all the prompting the youth needed before he hesitantly took Jaskier’s hand, letting himself be led to a distant table, the bard rambling about nonsense all the way. 

Geralt stared at the bard’s retreating back, still distracted by Jaskier’s scent. It was no longer covered in fear, or anger, but it was also devoid of… well..everything that made Jaskier, Jaskier. And despite the joy the bard exuded while talking to Lucas, no accompanying joyful scent had emanated from the bard. He had been empty. 

And if Jaskier’s pulse was sedate and far too calm for the emotions passing through his face, then Geralt’s heartbeat soared, elevated far beyond what was normal for a Witcher. And Geralt realized that this was what if felt like to be worried. After ages being devoid of worry, for himself, for anyone else except his brothers, it had become difficult to recognize it. Witcher potions diluting the emotion till it was nothing but an echo in his mind. Yet the fiery hot tension pounding through his veins could not be confused for anything other worry for the bard. 

And he was annoyed, because without Jaskier’s comforting chamomile and primrose scent, the world had gone back to smelling like the shit hole it truly was.

And he was annoyed by how much he’d come to rely on the human’s calming scent. It was ridiculous how he was annoyed at how annoyed its absence made him. 

Whatever was going on, it needed to be fixed, soon.

“I believe we were talking Witcher,”

Geralt blinked, and tore his gaze away from Jaskier’s back, towards Marian.

“How many?” Geralt asked. 

At this Marian grimaced, glancing to the side, pulse accelerating at the thought of the beast, “one, of this I am sure.”

Geralt frowned, “How are you so sure?”

“It leaves tracks,” she explained, “Only one set of tracks, though none of the men are stupid enough to attempt to hunt it down. And its doubtful if those tracks will ever disappear, with the rains lagging as much as they are.”

“Hmm”, Geralt grunted, acknowledging what she said. 

“You’re in a dry spell?” Geralt asked.

Marian wrung her hands, “Worst one in twenty years. Crops won’t grow, and the soil rises from the ground at the gentlest of winds. If it doesn’t rain soon, then the monster might be the least of our worries.”

She continued explaining anything she knew about the monster. Geralt listened, but he also couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between Jaskier and Lucas, the distance doing nothing to muffle their voices against his sensitive ears despite his inability to see their faces.

Jaskier spun tales of sirens and fairies, obviously attempting to distract the child, yet it seemed in vain, as Lucas uttered not a single question or word.

Jaskier finally went quiet, and just as Geralt was beginning to think he’d given up, he spoke.

“I had a sister too, once.” words hesitant and slow coming from Jaskier’s mouth.

Geralt’s heart froze in his chest, barely hearing Marian in front of him.

Geralt heard Lucas squeeze his bunny, beads scraping against each other inside the stuffed animal.

“Where did she go?”

“Well,” Jaskier’s voice was breathless, raspy and weak as Geralt had never heard it.

“she’s gone, like yours” the admission from bard sounding as though someone had punched it out of him. 

Even from that distance, Geralt could hear the bard’s nails scraping the soft dry wood on the table’s surface.

“Oh” Geralt heard Lucas hug the bunny to his chest.

“Well, maybe they’re together now.” Lucas whispered.

Geralt heard the boy’s heart beat start to race, and the scent of tears began to permeate through the inn.

“Do you” the boy’s voice trembling from the strength of holding in his sobs, “Did you ever stop missing her?”

Geralt heard Jaskier’s heart skip a beat.

He heard it begin anew in a broken rhythm. A rhythm Geralt knew well from others.

Anger.

After a long pause..

“Never.” Jaskier said, voice frigid and steady as a mountain in the wind, fear completely gone from his scent. 

And Geralt could only rage at his inability to fix this, fix all of this, because for all of Jaskier’s talking, he never even knew the bard had a sister at all.

—————————

After gathering any important details from Marian, Geralt watched her collect her grandchild, while the bard was as cheerful as ever, telling her how well Lucas had behaved. The bard clasped his hands, a grin from ear to ear, promising to sing for Lucas later. His voice was kind and calm, far too calm for a man admitting to his sister’s death only moments earlier. 

And Geralt wished everything were fine, but his heart still beat two paces too fast (Geralt didn’t let himself think when and why he’d learned the bard’s resting heartbeat), and his eyes lacked a strange light they’d had before, leaving them looking bereft. And Geralt felt the world was upside down, because everything was still wrong, and yet it still seemed fine as ever at the same time. Because Jaskier was still the same as ever, but different at the same time.

Jaskier still clasped Geralt’s shoulder and told him he’d be going to their room to get some rest, just like in every hunt before.

And he still held Geralt’s gaze with a calm smile despite the Witcher’s yellow slitted eyes, just like in every hunt before. 

And he still ran up the stairs, taking two at a time while making a racket that Geralt used to find ear splitting, but now only left him fondly exasperated, just like in every hunt before.

But it’s not ok, not alright at all, because the comforting scent of chamomile and primrose, was still gone, unlike every hunt before. 

And Geralt, for all his strength, and mutations, and training, has no idea know how to fix it.

No idea at all.

————————————

Geralt checked on Roach soon after. He focused on brushing her down, all the while ignoring the suspicious glances the bone thin stable boy kept shooting him. Geralt had bigger worries. Worries such as finding out what kind of monster he was hunting. Worries such as, how to fix whatever was wrong with Jaskier, because Geralt couldn’t imagine a world where the bard’s gentle scent was absent.

The stable boy muttered an insult that Geralt still caught, and all but stormed outside. 

Geralt ignored him, Focused on brushing Roach down. Once he finished with that, he poured her feed into a trough, watching her have her meal.

Geralt relaxed into the routine of it all, until he smelled a gentle but sharp scent of moisture in the air. It coiled through the stable gracefully, till the humidity reached Geralt’s nose.

Geralt’s eyes widened.

It couldn’t be.

Outside, Geralt heard the stableboy shout in surprise, along with suspicious sounding plip plops rebounding on the dry ground.

Geralt rushed his way out of the stable, steps heavy yet hurried, only to have his face be assaulted by heavy droplets of water once exposed to the outside.

He found the source of the shout, only to be met by a waterlogged stable hand. Although completely drenched, the stable hand seemed not to care. His arms were held out, catching stray droplets, as an incredulous smile adorned his face for the very first time since Geralt had seen him.

“The rains are here! The dry spell is over everyone!” the stable hand screamed, “It’s over! THE DRY SPELL IS OVER!” He roared.

And outside, Geralt could see all the townspeople leaving their homes, the same look of wonder and relief on their faces as on the stable hand, as they held their hands out, letting the long hoped for rain fall onto their welcoming palms.

Geralt watched the town come alive, until Marian came running outside as well, her face twisted in disbelief. She held her hand out as well, and watched the droplets run through the deep wrinkles in her palm before returning it to cover her mouth.

Tears began to glisten at the corners of her eyes. 

“It’s a miracle,” she choked out, struggling to maintain her composure as the rain turned into a downpour.

——————————————

Geralt walked back to the inn, eager to dry himself after the surprise rainfall.

Sadly for him, the townspeople’s luck was his misfortune, as any tracks left by the monster would have no doubt by then been erased. 

Geralt heaved a sigh as he walked up the steps, only for his calm to be broken by the scent of blood.

Jaskier’s blood.

Geralt ran up the stairs, his mind rushing through successively more horrible scenarios as to why his bard was bleeding. 

Did he fall from his bed?

Did he cut himself on accident?

Did some angry viscous villager break in and attack Jaskier, just from associating with a Witcher?

At that thought Geralt doubled his pace, not thinking as he slammed the door open while simultaneously pulling out his steel sword. 

It wouldn’t be the first time Jaskier was attacked due to his association with the Witcher. Geralt recalled one such occasion when he’d been out on a hunt, only to return to their inn to find five men outside, completely unconscious. He’d gone in only to find Jaskier sporting a black eye, and a story.

“You wouldn’t believe it Geralt!” the bard had exclaimed, words rushing out of his mouth, “Those men attacked me, but that knight over there,” he’d pointed to some dazed looking knight in the corner of the inn, “ saved me from certain death, this poor face, imagine Geralt, could’ve been damaged forever!”

And Geralt didn’t need to ask why they’d attacked Jaskier. He’d heard them earlier, moaning about emotionless, evil, witchers, having no business in an inn. He’d simply thought they didn’t have the balls to do anything about it.

He’d been wrong.

And the thanks he’d given the strangely dazed knight had tasted like shit coming out of his mouth.

Because Geralt had failed.

He’d failed at protecting the bard, and instead, Jaskier had to rely on some two penny knight to save his hide. 

At a slurred response from the knight, Geralt had frowned, and asked Jaskier what was wrong with him.

Jaskier had rolled his eyes, “Oh Geralt, don’t you worry. While courageously defending your companion, he took a blow to the head, but he’s fine now, aren’t you?” Jaskier had asked the knight forcefully, smile pasted onto his face.

The knight had looked at the bard, and then mumbled some response, incoherent to even Geralt’s sensitive ears. Geralt’s left eyebrow rose.

However, Geralt had left it at that.

The important thing was that Jaskier was safe. 

But Geralt refused to fail again.

When the door banged open, he was met by the sight of Jaskier attempting to staunch the flow of blood coming from somewhere on his face. 

At the sudden noise, the bard inside the room jumped, the hand over his nose shifting as a result, allowing some droplets of blood to coat the floor underneath.

“Melitle’s tits Geralt!”

Geralt growled at the sight, and listened as well as scented the room for any possible intruders. 

His anger turned into confusion as he found both of them to be the only occupants of the room. 

“Oh my word Geralt!” The bard screamed at noticing Geralt’s sword in hand, “It’s just a nose bleed!”

Not at all comforted, and heart still racing from panic, Geralt sheathed his sword and approached the bard.

“Let me see,” Geralt grumbled, reaching for the hand staunching the blood in Jaskier’s nose. 

What proceeded was a rather vicious tug of war between Jaskier and Geralt. Geralt’s goal was to remove the hand and check for damage, while Jaskier’s goal seemed to be attempting to be as difficult as possible. 

“You impossible oaf! I’m fine, let go of me!” Jaskier shrieked, almost hysterical.

The resulting struggle only added to the small but growing puddle of blood on the floor.

A fucking puddle on the floor, from a fucking nosebleed. 

“Stop being so difficult!” Geralt snarled, worry at the amount of blood exiting the human’s body overcoming his already thin patience. 

Were nosebleeds supposed to bleed that much?

Jaskier continued to struggle, heart beat racing, still sounding wrong to Geralt’s ears. However, the bard’s strength soon ebbed, and Geralt ripped his hand from his face to get a clear view of Jaskier’s nose. 

Jaskier whined at his hand being ripped away, but Geralt ignored him.

Geralt cupped one large hand over Jaskier’s check, this thumb brushing over the top of his upper lip while accidentally smearing the blood there over one cheek. All the while Jaskier’s eyes never left Geralt’s eyes, while his hand remained clasped over Geralt’s wrist. His face was pale, his eyes wide, breaths quick and gasping, reminding Geralt of earlier when Jaskier had seemed far away and in a nightmare. Except now, it was clear Jaskier was looking at Geralt. 

His nose didn’t appear broken, but it was bleeding far more than what seemed normal. The blood left a thick trail down the front of Jaskier’s doublet, the resulting path coating the bard’s mouth and chin. 

“Fuck” Geralt grunted, his heart still racing as he replaced Jaskier’s hand and gently pinched the bridge of the bard’s nose, attempting to staunch the bleeding. 

He was so focused on staunching the blood, that he barely noticed the bard’s eyes losing focus, and his heart starting to race like a hummingbird’s.

Geralt could only utter one loud and vicious, “Jaskier!” Before the bard swayed on his feet, legs collapsing as he began to fall towards the floor. 

Geralt caught him before he hit the ground, now completely panicked at what the fuck could be going on.

Geralt pulled Jaskier’s completely limp body closer to him, sliding one hand under the bard’s shoulders, and the other under knees before lifting him completely, Jaskier’s head lolling disturbingly on Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt made a beeline for the bed, only for him to notice the way his own hands were shaking as they gripped Jaskier’s limp body closer. 

Stunned, Geralt could only stare as his hands refused to stop trembling. 

His hands never trembled. 

Trembling hands meant hands that were unable to wield a sword.

Trembling hands meant the inability to defend himself.

Trembling hands meant death for a Witcher.

Vesemir had beaten the shaking out of hands ages ago, only for it to return now. 

At the sound of more blood hitting the floor, Geralt shook his head and slowly laid Jaskier over the bed.

Geralt felt around the bard’s body for any sign of collision, any sign of damage, that could lead the Witcher to understanding why Jaskier was hemorrhaging from a simple nose bleed. 

But Geralt found nothing.

Geralt was startled out of his escalatingly more terrified thoughts, as he heard Jaskier choke, liquid that could only be blood gushing out of his mouth and nose.

Geralt’s eyes widened and he rushed to turn Jaskier’s motionless face to the side, opening his mouth to allow the buildup of blood to exit his mouth. In his distraction, Geralt had almost let Jaskier choke to death on his own blood. Jaskier gagged, and Geralt worked to clear the bard’s mouth of blood. 

Somewhere in Geralt’s mind, numb amongst the horror he was living through, he noted how stained the bed covers were becoming. How stained his hands were becoming. Stained with blood.

Jaskier’s blood. 

Geralt felt ice pierce his chest.

Geralt began pawing desperately at Jaskier’s head, breaths quickening with dread, trying to find any sort of bump or bruise, anything that could cause this. 

He couldn’t lose Jaskier over a nosebleed.

He wouldn’t lose Jaskier over anything, not while he could help it. 

Just as Geralt was prepared to gather Jaskier into his arms again and demand to see the town’s healer, the blood flow ebbed, only a slight trickle to what had previously been a torrent of crimson.

Geralt held his breath and pinched the bridge of Jaskier’s nose again to try to stop the nosebleed completely. 

After a terrifying couple of seconds, Geralt lifted his hand, praying to all the gods he had previously cursed at, and begged to all the heavens, for the bleeding to have stopped. 

To his utter, bone weary relief, the bleeding had stopped. Geralt let his shoulders slump in exhaustion, more worn from this haunting experience than from any hunt in recent memory. 

Geralt allowed himself a moment of calm before he began checking Jaskier over.

Geralt placed two gentle fingers underneath the bard’s jaw to the side, feeling for his pulse. 

The calm and steady, if slightly thready pulse comforted him. And as Geralt let his fingers rest over the pulsing artery, he could feel it picking up strength. 

Satisfied with the knowledge that Jaskier’s heart wasn’t about to fail from blood loss, he continued checking him over. 

He looked a fright, his lower face completely covered in red. But his eyes were closed, and his face relaxed.

He was still far paler than normal, but his cheeks were beginning to regain a healthy blush.

Before doing anything else, Geralt reached for Jaskier’s legs, bunching up the covers so his feet were higher than the rest of his body. After, he moved Jaskier’s head into a more comfortable position, while he adjusted his arms to lay at his side. Geralt finally reached for the thickest of the blankets and covered jaskier with it, tucking it in at the edges to makes sure the warmth wouldn’t escape. 

Geralt then placed a hand over the bard’s nose and mouth. His breaths were regular and easy.

He placed a callus worn palm over the bard’s brow. His temperature was fine, not too hot, not too cold.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Geralt covered his face with his hands, before gathering the strength to fetch a rag and a bucket of water. 

When he returned with the desired items, Jaskier was still lost to the world, eyes closed and chest rising steadily. 

He began the laborious task of cleaning the blood off Jaskier’s face by dipping the rag into the bucket, excess moisture squeezed out by strong hands, before being applying it carefully over the bard’s upper lip. 

Blood looked wrong on Jaskier’s skin, Geralt thought, as he worked to clean the crimson liquid off of him.

He moved the rag back and forth over Jaskier’s soft skin, working to rid the bard’s soft skin of any remainder of blood. 

Just as he was near done, the bard jerked, coming awake with a horrified gasp. His eyes focused, and an angry snarl came over his face at seeing Geralt. 

“Get off of me!” The bard shouted, eyes furious as he ripped the blanket off him.

Geralt grunted in surprise, before backing away and lifting his arms to show he had nothing in his hands except the bloodied rag.

Geralt could only watch Jaskier, stunned, because Jaskier did not tremble in his presence. Jaskier was never afraid of him. He was the only one to never be afraid of him, and so why was Jaskier staring at him as though he’d murdered his mother?

Trembling gasps continued to pass through Jaskier lips, as he stared at the Witcher like a spooked horse, hands gripping the sheet tangled around him. 

And the smell was back. The wrong, sour, scent of fear. 

Geralt wanted it gone, because that smell, the smell of terror, was not meant to be coming from Jaskier.

“What the fuck was that!?” Geralt roared, his anxiety morphing into fury despite his mind cautioning him to be gentle.

“Nothin,” Jaskier breathed, his scent calming, yet still different, “Nothing.”

“That was not ‘nothing’,” Geralt growled, “I’ve never seen a nose bleed like that! Was that even a nose bleed? What the fuck happened?”

“It’s just a nose bleed Geralt, nothing happened!” Jaskier shouted, voice bordering on frustrated.

Geralt looked at the bard’s still trembling form, and started to walk back towards him to finish cleaning off the rest of the blood, only to see Jaskier’s mouth turn into a grimace.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier bit out.

Geralt glared, fury threatening to overwhelm him as the vein on the side of his head bulged, and the day’s events began to weigh on him. 

The stupid fuck was not fine. He was so completely not fine, and Geralt still didn’t know what the fuck had happened. If it happened again, Geralt still wouldn’t know what to do, because the fucking bard wouldn’t tell him. 

Biting the inside of his cheek to restrain his temper, he tossed the bloodied rag towards bed. It landed to the left of Jaskier.

“You can wash your own damn face off then,” Geralt snarled, frame shaking with the effort of reigning in his worry and fury. 

Geralt left to wash the fucking human blood off his hands and under his fingernails, while Jaskier stared at his retreating back, hands feeling his mostly clean face in disbelief. 

Geralt scrubbed his hands harshly, making sure to rid himself of blood underneath his fingernails.

The rusty drying liquid made him nauseous.

He couldn’t stand the smell of blood.

Jaskier’s blood.

——————————————

Things were quiet after that.

They avoided each other, sticking to opposite corners of the room.  
Geralt set out to prepare his swords for the night. Sharpening them as he counted the number of potions he would need, just in case. 

Geralt refused to look at Jaskier, whose scent was still wrong. No, he could not look at him, because if he did, he might see the horror filled images of earlier. Jaskier limp and dead looking. No, he would rather not look at the bard at all.

However, as the sounds of Jaskier cleaning his face and changing his shirt passed, so too did Geralt’s anger. Instead, it was replaced by concern. 

Geralt had reacted harshly in his worry, and he only grew to regret it as the hours passed. 

Jaskier had just relived his sister’s death, and suffered a strange nosebleed, all in one hectic afternoon, only to come to a furious Geralt.

Geralt didn’t even know if Jaskier had watched his sister die in front of him. 

He shuddered at the thought. 

That would certainly explain the terror filled episodes. Perhaps when he looked at Geralt as he was waking up, he saw what killed his sister. 

The thought only made Geralt feel guiltier at his reaction, as Jaskier worked to pull the bloodied bed covering off the frame.

It was unlike Jaskier to remain quiet for so long, and Geralt found himself missing the bard’s nonsensical drivel. 

His scent was still wrong, and Geralt found he missed that too. 

Geralt wasn’t good at gentle. He wasn’t good at comforting, not like Jaskier. But he had to try. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt choked, words tasting like dirt.

And the ones after were even harder to get out.

“I was worried,” Geralt grimaced, his mouth twisted in disgust. 

Geralt heard Jaskier’s hands freeze where they were tugging a top over his head.

Geralt held his breath, waiting for the verdict. 

Jaskier snorted gently from the other room, humorless laughter following it.

Geralt relaxed. He was forgiven.

“How hard did you have to smack yourself to get those words out,” chortled Jaskier. 

“Almost as hard as you must have, to nearly bleed to death from a nosebleed,” Geralt responded dryly. 

The laughter ended abruptly.

“Geralt..” Jaskier said hesitantly, as the bard moved closed to the Witcher finally in his line of sight, and placed a gentle hand over the others’ shoulder. “I really am fine.”

Geralt let the contact happen, strangely comforted by the warmth from the bard’s hand.

If Jaskier was touching him, it meant he wasn’t afraid of him. 

“And thank you,” Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s shoulder, “for taking care of me while whatever that was happened,”

“I don’t know what that was,” continued Jaskier, “but I feel fine now,” he said reassuringly. 

After a long pause, Geralt grunted, accepting the answer and gratitude.

“If it happens again,” Geralt warned, “You’re going to a healer.”

“Duly noted,” Jaskier answered, a gentle smile on his face. 

Jaskier went back to unpacking his bags, checking that all his things were in order.

Everything was apparently back to normal. Except it wasn’t. Because Jaskier still didn’t smell like chamomile, still didn’t smell like primrose, still didn’t smell like Jaskier. He wasn’t talking nearly as much as he should be. Something was still wrong.

And drawing upon his already severely strained and diminished conversational ability, Geralt forced himself to try and fix things once again. 

He searched for the right words to both comfort Jaskier, and have his own curiosity answered, but what left his mouth had absolutely no tact. 

“I never knew you had siblings.”

The bard froze again.

He turned to face Geralt, his expression struggling to remain soft and smiling, but his eyes gave him away.

“And I never knew witchers were so nosy,” Jaskier countered teasingly, pulling at an invisible stitch at his shirt seam, forcing humor into his voice.

At Geralt’s continued silence and pointed impassive stare, Jaskier sighed, knowing the Witcher wouldn’t let it go. 

“You never asked,” Jaskier admitted, voice hardening.

Geralt frowned. His voice had gone cold as ice again. He couldn’t tell what Jaskier was feeling, what he was thinking. His scent was all but gone, and his face was expressionless, those usually warm eyes gone icy. 

Words that Jaskier would normally offer freely, Geralt now had to drag and scrape for. 

Geralt found it unsettling.

Unsettled, but not dissuaded, Geralt continued.

“What happened?”

The bard’s face did not change, but his fingers twitched on his lap.

“She was murdered”, Jaskier answered in monotone, not taking his eyes off Geralt’s.

His voice was made strange by his lack of inflection.

So unlike Jaskier.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt grunted, probably using that phrase for the second time in his life. This time, the phrase did not taste like dirt.

“Were they ever caught?”

At Jaskier’s continued stare, Geralt elaborated.

“The murderer?”

At this, Jaskier’s face did a strange little dance, muscles twitching, as though wanting to move yet being halted halfway through.

Finally the bard’s face settled on impassive again. But the heart inside the bard’s chest soared into a dizzying rhythm.

“No.” 

Geralt tried. He tried so hard, but knew no words capable of consoling such grief. He was not gentle, or tactful, or apparently comforting. He didn’t know what to do, and his inability frustrated him to no end. He had to say something, but again, the words that came out could only be described as pathetic. 

Geralt winced even as they left his lips. 

“…Things like this, things like this have a way of righting themselves.. in my experience,” It was a pitiful attempt, and Geralt knew it. 

But Jaskier’s gaze focused, his words seeming to have some effect as light returning to his eyes, but not like before. This was a different light, one that Geralt did not recognize. His staccato heartbeat calmed.

In an empty voice, with an empty gaze, face like stone and staring at Geralt eerily, he titled his head to the side like a cat. 

“I think you just might be right about that Geralt.”

————————-

And so, after such a bizarre day, Geralt found himself downwind of an Alghoul. It was an ugly creature, pink drool dripping from its mouth. Despite the lack of a trail, tracking the monster had been a quick affair. He simply followed the stench of rot, strange and out of place in a forest.

Geralt prepared, his hand reaching for the hilt of his silver sword, briefly brushing on Renfri’s pendant. He held the hilt of his sword, readying himself. Just as the creature lifted its jaws to scent the air, Geralt burst for the thick foliage before the creature could sniff him out. 

It screeched at the interruption, its face bulging in fury as it rushed to meet the oncoming Witcher. Geralt swung his sword, attempting to lop off its head with one smooth stroke. It was not to be, as the creature dodged to the side, lunging with its own blade like claws. Geralt danced away, focused on the monster in front of him.

Alghouls normally led a small to medium pack of lower ghouls, but this one seemed to be a solitary male, kicked out of its own pack by the reigning male for fear of eventually being deposed. 

This one was probably in search of a pack to call its own.

Geralt swung again, clipping the Alghoul on its side. It gave out a hoarse howl, screech grating on Geralt’s sensitive ears.

The monster re doubled its efforts, blows coming quicker, and in a rare moment of distraction, it managed to swat Geralt, sending him flying onto a thick old tree. Geralt grunted, liquid trickling down his forehead. 

Through the mess of blood Geralt saw the Alghoul rush towards him, and he only just managed to dodge what would have been a head separating bite to the neck. Instead, the creature got a mouthful of tree.

It’s jaws seemed stuck in the old and weather worn mark. Roaring at its body struggled to free its teeth.

The battle was over. Immobilized as it was, it would be an easy kill.

Geralt readied his sword, prepared to lop of the monster’s head for a quick death, when a sharp pain at his arm distracted him.

He hissed, sword flashing and cutting through what he saw to be a wailing ghoul. 

His eyes widened. 

He’d been wrong, the Alghoul was not solitary. 

It was leading its own pack.

He had to the time to utter one, solitary, and desperate, “Fuck,” before he was flooded by a sea of Ghouls. 

All screeching and yowling as they attempted to take a bite out of Geralt. 

Ghouls were easy enough to kill, but hunting so many of them at one time was dangerous.

Geralt struggled to defend himself against the horde, killing many with one swing, but it was in vain as more rushed to take the fallen’s place.

One eventually broke through his defense, and bit through the arm not holding a sword. Geralt hissed in pain, his sword occupied in defending himself against Ghouls. Geralt swung his arm wildly, only for another Ghoul to jump at his back, launching him to the ground.

At having the Witcher down on the ground, the remaining Ghouls mobbed him, biting down with sharp jaws on anything limb they could find.

Geralt growled, and with a desperate surge of energy despite even more bites lining his limbs and torso, he struggled to his feet. 

The Ghouls did not let go, hanging off the Witcher like macabre ornaments decorating a tree. 

Geralt howled in throbbing agony, recognizing the battle was becoming deadly, before batting Ghouls off his frame, ignoring the way they took chunks of his flesh with them.

Geralt desperately swung his sword, trying to dislodge more of them, when a huge force hit him on the side, throwing him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. 

Geralt sucked in a ragged gasp, as the remaining Ghouls ravaged him. And past the wriggling squirming horde, Geralt saw the Alghoul, finally free of the bark.

Geralt’s heart thundered in his ears, barely noticing as the Ghouls continued to tear and butcher his body, blood flowing from him like water in a river.

Geralt knew he was done.

Geralt’s last memory before the blood loss overwhelmed him, was Jaskier’s nimble fingers braiding flowers into Roach’s mane, smile gentle, and sky blue eyes turning to look look at Geralt, fearless and sweet.

As Geralt’s vision tunneled, and his hearing faded, Geralt realized he had regret.

Regret that he would never see Jaskier again. 

————————————-

Hidden from view, and silent as a mouse, Jaskier watched in the distance.

He watched as the the Ghouls overwhelmed the Witcher. 

He watched as they tore into his flesh, ripping chunks of meat and skin as blood began to pour. 

He watched the Witcher lose consciousness.

Jaskier watched it all, with the same emotionless, empty gaze, moving not a single finger to help.

He watched the horde of Ghouls part for the larger Alghoul, making way for him to issue the killing blow.

All the while, Jaskier kept watching, motionless, as the Alghoul stalked towards the unconscious Witcher.

His pounding, frenzied heart the only sign betraying his otherwise calm exterior.


	2. Am I as alone as I seem?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I thought long as to what the next chapter should be, and I thought that some backstory was in order. It important to understand the past in this story. In addition, I thought I’d let you guys read a snipped of what’s to come Saturday. So don’t worry if this chapter’s a little short, its in preparation of the monster on Saturday. And who knows, maybe ill post two chapters on Saturday and Sunday... 🤔

Please enjoy!

/////////////

Kasia stormed into her chambers, and hastily locked the door, doing her best to keep her husband and his entourage out.

“No, you will not come into this room! I won’t let you!”

The brown haired queen at still feeling threatened, barricaded the room with her body, using the last of her strength warding against the knocking at her door. Her body randomly jolted as a result of the force hitting outside the entrance.

“Please Kasia, my love, my sweet heart, open the door,” the king pleaded.

Kasia put her remaining hand on her belly, sobbing in desperation knowing that at any moment Fredefalk could order the door opened by force, despite any protest from her. 

“You won’t take them!” Kasia’s voice was muffled by a sob.

“They’re mine! They’re innocent, no one will harm them, I wont let them!” Determination lacing her voice along desperation.

Muffled voices could be heard outside the room, alongside Fredefalk’s, “My lord, we could have the knights open the door, we need to prepare my lord… things… things need to be done… In light of what Eltibald has revealed.”

“You are all dismissed,” King Fredefalk boomed, voice leaving no room for doubt, “Leave me with my wife.”

“But my lord, we all need to discuss-“

“There is nothing here that would require your expertise,” King Fredefalk ordered, “You will all leave us, now.”

Kasia could hear the grumbling of her husband’s counselors and the light steps of her ladies fading through the door. In spite of their noticeable retreat, Kasia remained immovable against the door. All the while, she wept softly while bracing her forehead against its wooden surface.

“Kasia, my love-”

“I don’t care what you or that mage have to say Fredefalk!” Kasia rasped, “They are my children, whether they be born a boy or girl, mine, and no one will harm them.”

“Kasia darling-“

“Do you hear me husband?” The Queen shrieked, accompanying it with a blow against the door, “They will not be taken from me! I don’t care what some hack magician and his supposed prophecy say, I won’t let them!”

“And I do not intend to let them either, woman!” The king snapped, his patience at an end. 

At only hearing muffled breathing in response, the king slumped, before sighing and placing his brow against the door as well.

“What have I done Kasia?” The king asked, sounding exhausted, “What have I done against you, that has made you doubt me so?”

“It is not what you will do to me Fredefalk, that worries me,” the Queen rebuked, “They are innocent,” she pleaded, “and I cannot trust you in this because I don’t know what you believe or who’s opinion you will heed.”

“Kasia…” the king sighed. 

“At least give me a head start,” the queen blurted out.

Kasia turned her back against the door, bracing the crown of her head against the wood. He eyes shut tightly, she wiped away a tear making its way down her cheek.

She had no time for weakness now, it was time for strength.

She glanced down, and placed a gentle hand over the slight well of her belly. 

Only strength.

“One night Fredefalk,” she gasped, “One night, and I’ll be gone, to free you from this burden.”

“Are you insane Kasia!?” The king raged.

“The what other option is there Fredefalk?” Kasia shrieked back.

“Sometimes,” the king murmured, rubbing his face aggressively with his hands, “Sometimes, I feel you are difficult for the sole reason that you can!”

“Do not ridicule me,” Kasia hissed. 

King Fredefalk quit pacing, and gently placed his hands on the door with his eyes closed, imagining his wife’s warmth on the other side.

“The other option,” he began hesitantly, “is that you open this Melitle blasted door, and stay here by my side,” the king choked, voice becoming hoarse, “and let me love you, and this child, with every part of my being… till the end of my days.”

Kasia slid to the floor, leaning against the door, her face in her hands as she weeped, not daring to believe her husband.

“If it is a boy,” the king stated wistfully, “then he shall be my heir, but that will not be the reason for my love. I will treasure him, because he will be the greatest gift you ever gave me, a part of you, and he shall want for nothing.”

“And if she’s a girl?” Kasia demanded, voice quiet and trembling. She covered her mouth with a hand, as two more tears slid down her cheeks, waiting for a response from the other side of the door.

“And if it is a girl,” The king continued, voice becoming gentle, soft, “then I will love her and treasure her just as much.”

The king’s voice cracked.

“And she too will want for nothing, for she will be my daughter.” 

Fredefalk swallowed, a tear making its way down his bearded face,

“And I would sooner let this kingdom fall, than let any harm come to my daughter.”

Whimpering, Kasia opened her eyes and stood up. She unlocked the door and flung it open only to reveal the startled face of her husband.

“Do you promise?” Both hands fisted at her sides, she tried to remain strong as stone, yet her trembling arms and watery eyes betrayed her. 

At the sight of his valiant queen, he threw aside his duties, his counselor’s words; all of it.

And for once in his life, Fredefalk allowed himself to be a husband and father, before a king.

“I won’t let harm come to this child, whether they be a boy or a girl, believe me” he pleaded, “damned prophecy or not.” 

And at that, Kasia’s face fell in relief as she rushed into her husband’s welcoming arms.

They both held each other, hands desperately grasping onto the other, as if they were the only thing keeping them above water. 

And all the while, they were completely and utterly unaware of lady Aridea’s jealous eyes, spying on them from a bend in the stone corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor poor queen...
> 
> ——————-
> 
> Also, a mega chapter will still be posted on Saturday, this is just important backstory that would not get out of my head.
> 
> Thanks for reading and have an awesome night!


	3. I left you with all I had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, I divided a huge chapter into tinier chapters cuz otherwise it would be too long.
> 
> This one is a tear jerker, butttt, at least there’s some cuteness! Prepare for baby Jaskier!
> 
> WARNING: GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS AND DESCRIPTIONS OF BIRTH AND DEATH IN THIS CHAPTER. 
> 
> So many tags should be added. Please enjoy!

The castle seemed barren and desolate, floors cold and the conversations hushed. In the dead of winter, ice felt as though it seeped from the floor, carrying to the walls, encroaching upon the air.

However, no area of the castle seemed colder than the floor containing the queen’s rooms. 

Queen Kasianna’s wails could be heard echoing outside her royal chambers, to the horror of council members, and a pacing king waiting outside the birthing room. 

On his 20th pass in front of the queen’s rooms, the king cursed and moved to open the door, only to be stopped by Eldor, one of his councilors.

“My lord! You must not enter now, it is forbidden!”

“Unhand me Eldor,” The king ordered, only to be interrupted by another throat burning scream, making both councilor and king pause. 

“This is not going the way it’s supposed to,” The king muttered nervously, his hands cold and clammy, “It’s taking too long.”

The maids in the corridor flinched as another scream reverberated past the door. They held themselves at the ready, buckets of warm water in front of them for when the queen needed them.

Yet all the nobles, and maids, and the king, struggled to ignore the most obvious; the lack of shine visible through the window.

The black sun, as was prophesied. 

The king glanced at the window nervously, before returning his gaze to the door.

They could only wait outside, while destiny flipped a coin.

Lord Pankratz was one of the few nobles who stood still, seemingly immune to the anxiety permeating the castle. His son, Lord Silas has no such discipline, and openly buried his nails in his palms.

“Her screams have not stopped.” He whispered to his father, head leaning towards the lord, aa terrible attempt to remain discrete. 

“It is beyond our hands now,” Lord Pankratz replied calmly, “it is up to your sister to do her duty now.” 

“We should go in and see!” Lord Silas urged silently, heart thrumming with worry, “We have too many enemies to be complacent now.” Silas viewed the room, eyeing the different nobles and ladies, all whom he knew better than to trust implicitly.

Their hushed conversation began to draw curious eyes, and focused ears, and Lord Pankratz directed a calm demeanor in their direction, inclining his head.

As soon at the other nobles were distracted yet again, Lord Pankratz gestured for his son to come closer. His eyes were relaxed with toothy grin on his face. 

As soon as Silas drew closer, Lord Pankratz captured his wrist in a bruising grip, drawing a pained grimace from his son. 

He dragged the boy closer till his mouth was at his ear, all the while his expression remained the same. 

“School yourself boy,” he muttered, smiling to one of the noble’s wives, the picture of an exuberant soon to be grandfather, “you must remember….we are surrounded only by friends here.”

Silas struggled to remain impassive as his father’s grip on his hand tightened. He winced, as bone in his wrist creaked.

“Remember your place boy,” Lord Pankratz warned, tightening for one second before relaxing his grip, “or others will remind you of a new one.”

He eyed his son one last time, finding pain and discomfort in his eyes, before releasing his wrist.

“Besides,” he continued, straightening his son’s clothes after the rough handling, the image of calm and grace, “the birthing chamber is no place for a man.”

Silas struggled not to flinch as his father brushed invisible debris from his doublet, unsure of how he would proceed. 

Despite the little scene between father and son, the hushed whisperings amongst them continued, as the sky morphed to ashen, and afternoon turned to night.

All flinched when lady Meidri rushed outside the room, face red and hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

“Well come on then,” she demanded, impatiently waving over the maids and gesturing for them to follow her, “We need more warm water!”

She held the door open for the terrified maids. Just as they all passed through the door, the king caught her wrist, stopping her from following the rest of the maids. 

“Please Meidri,” The king pleaded, “Tell me how she is doing? Is she of good spirit?”

“My king,” Lady Meidri took a deep breath, eyes searching out for someone in the crowd, “It is still early, and you must let me go to keep helping her.”

The king let go of her wrist, ignoring the proving gaze Meidri sent him.

Meidri searched one last time amongst the crowd, before rushing back and slamming the door shut.

And the king, nobles, and remaining maids listened despondently to another shriek from inside the room, unable and in some cases unwilling, to help in any way.

////////////////////

Inside the birthing chamber, it was all Kasia could do to grip the covers of her bed with all her strength, and scream as another contraction ripped through her.

“You mustn’t push yet your majesty!” The midwife reproached sternly. She was a stout old woman, with thick arms and strong build. Her mouth seemed to be stuck on a frown as she checked between the queen’s legs, not happy with what she found. 

On the bed, the queen’s entire body trembled with the strain of holding herself still. Her face was red and drenched in sweat, large heaving gasps of air flowing through her lungs audibly. At another instance of pain, the queen clenched her jaw, but remained still, seeking to follow the advice of the midwife. 

At her side stood one of her ladies, Meidri, placing a cold clothe upon the queen’s brow.

“That’s it,” Meidri soothed, “It’ll all be over soon.”

At the queen’s other side, Lady Aridea pushed back the few stray strands of hair that escaped the queen’s bun, held together by a brooch, a brief look of disgust covered her face at finding a sweaty forehead, quickly hidden by gentle concern. 

The queen screamed again as another contraction ripped through her belly, yet she did not push. Between her legs, the midwife’s frown grew deeper, as the queen’s screams were accompanied by a gush of blood from between her legs. 

“More towels and water,” she demanded.

The maids hastened to comply, and in their nerves managed to drop one of the buckets of water.

“You twit minded fools!” The midwife roared, “Get out! Get out and come back when you decide to be useful!” 

The maid that dropped the bucket shook in fear of the strangely terrifying midwife, moving to leave before pausing, and hesitating.

“Do you want me..” the maid’s hands fluttered, “do you want me to get more water?...”

“Nooo,” the midwife replied slowly, eyes wide and mocking while she kept an eye on her patient, “No not at all dear heart, how about you bring us some pastries? Or perhaps better yet bring the knights in here to present a lovely joust to entertain our queen.”

“You’re not serious?” Eyes round and watery, the maid squeaked. 

“Of course I’m not serious you simpering idiot!,“ the midwife snapped, “Get us more water, preferably before the next Melitle damned eclipse.”

At another scream from the queen, the maid rushed out of the room, in search of another bucket of water. 

“Dear heavens above,” The midwife rolled her eyes, before accepting one of the upright buckets of water and a rag, wiping away the gore from between the queen’s legs to get a better look. 

“Please,” Queen Kasia groaned, “Please Melitle, let me push, PLase please let me push,” The queen sobbed quietly, shaking her head slowly side to side, lost in a world of pain. 

Lady Meidri hushed her, gently mopping at the sweat on her brow. 

At yet another gush of blood, yet no contraction, the midwife sighed, before rising to her feet. Her old bones creaked as he gestured for Lady Meidri to come nearer. 

Lady Meidri paused in her ministrations, and rushed to the midwife’s side. 

“Sister!” The queen reached for her retreating sibling. 

“I will soon be back at you side, my queen,” lady Meidri replied, all the while not taking her eyes from the midwife. 

The midwife took her to the furthest corner of the room, away from the grunts of pain, and the blood coating the bed.

“Soon we must come to a decision,” the midwife croaked, laying a heavy hand upon lady Meidri’s shoulder.

“What decision?” Meidri demanded, shrugging her shoulder, forcing the crone’s hand from her frame.

Meidri knew what the midwife meant, but she refused to consider it.

“The babe has been stuck too long,” the midwife urged, “your sister is losing too much blood.” 

“And that is why we employed your services,” Meidri responded, blue eyes cold as a glacier, “however perhaps we were mistaken, perhaps you are of no use to us.”

Meidri advanced on the midwife, her sweat drenched form still imposing as she towered over the bent and gnarled body of the crone.

“A shame,” Meidri continued, her plump lips turned up in a mean smile, “ that the king should ever find out the midwife attending to his queen be incompetent.” 

The midwife snorted, “you don’t scare me, little one.”

“Whatever happens to her now is Melittle’s work, I have no ability to interfere with the great mother,” she continued patiently.

“You must save both of them,” Meidri demanded, a quiver in her voice despite her imposing attitude.

“I cannot promise that, but I can prioritize one or the other,” The midwife cautioned.

“However, I must warn you,” the midwife said gently, “I am only telling you this out of courtesy for you, since she is your sister.”

The midwife took a breath.

“The ultimate decision lies with the king.”

//////////////////////

The crowd outside startled yet again as the door was flung open, Meidri having slammed them out of her way. 

“Your highness,” she called.

She bowed in the presence of the king, gritting her teeth while her face was hidden by her hair, “the midwife requests your presence.”

The king hesitated, before collecting his courage as he passed Meidri, making way for the birthing chambers. 

Meidri let the king pass, casting a judging glance at a man in the crowd and pursing her lips in disgust, before following the king and slamming the doors behind her.

She rushed to her sister’s side, unable to do anything else. 

“Hush sissy, hush,” Meidri urged, blue eyes casting across the room, to where the king and midwife argued.

“My love is here,” the queen grunted, “why is he not by my side?”

“He’ll be here at your side soon sissy,” Meidri comforted.

Meidri took a moment to observe her sister while she brushed sweat aside with a rag. Her skin was pale and sunken. There was more red than white on the bed. Her grip on the sheets was losing strength, and sky blue eyes were unfocused. She drew more shallow gulps, than calm breaths of air. 

Meidri swallowed the invisible obstruction in her throat that made her eyes water. 

She looked away, so as to not allow her sister to see the grief upon her face. 

Still looking away, she addressed Lady Aridea, “ you will leave now,” she ordered, voice not betraying her suffering. 

Lady Aridea’s eyes widened in surprise, “I am one of the queen’s ladies,” she argued, outraged, “appointed by the king himself!.”

“And even if you were appointed by Melitle herself,” Meidri answered, hard as stone, “I would still make you leave.”

“You can’t do this!” Lady Aridea sneered, “my father wouldn’t let you go unpunished, you’re not the king.”

Meidri straightened her back, and regarded Aridea as one would observe a particular inspect under the lenses of a piece of glass, “Listen here little girl,” she smiled sweetly, “I am the queen’s sister, aunt to the further heir of this kingdom, and daughter of Lord Pankratz.”

Lady Meidri dropped her smile into a vicious snarl.

“But the difference between you and I is not only in family, but in the fact that I need none of them to drag you out of this room by the hair, all the while you squeal and wail.”  
Lady Aridea remained impassive, yet she never took her eyes off Meidri.

“So you will leave now,” Meidri continued, as though discussing the birds in the garden, or an evening meal, “or you will create such a performance for the nobles, that your father’s honor will not forget it for generations to come.”

Both women assessed each other, neither willing to forfeit in a battle of wills. 

Finally, Lady Aridea rose from her crouched position, the picture of grace, while dropping her rag inside her bucket, not caring when the dirtied water splashed the queen’s cheek, causing her to murmur in discomfort.

At that, Meidri’s impassive stare turned into an outright glare. 

“As my lady the queen’s sister commands,” lady Aridea’s voice remained polite, even as her footsteps turned heavy in anger, and she exited the room. 

Meidri stared after her, making sure she left before turning her attention to her sister, wiping away the dirtied water. 

“Meidri,” The Queen whimpered, “it hurts so much.”

“I know sissy,” Meidri comforted, “soon it will all be over,”

Queen Kasia groaned, and another gush of blood covered the bed. 

At the continued loss of blood, Meidri bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, bowing her head as she held her sister’s hand. 

Meidri held her tears at bay with the pain in her lip. She swallowed again. 

Media raised her head, taking a deep breath, looking away from the gore on the bed.

“Sissy,” Meidri said with forced cheer, “I bet you you can’t wait to hold your baby in your arms.”

The queen’s face briefly relaxed from the pain.

“Yes,” she smiled dreamily while her eyes remained closed, “I can’t wait, for my beautiful baby.”

Meidri’s facsimile of a smile collapsed and she looked away, lips trembling.

However, she took another deep breath, and forced herself to smile. 

She would not leave her nephew or niece nameless. Or worse, to be named by the king. 

“To pass the time dear sissy,” Meidri whispered, “what did you decide for names?”

The queen weakly turned her head towards Meidri, “I will tell you,” Kasia held her sister’s gaze, “but not even my love knows, and I want it to be a surprise.”

“I wouldn’t dare utter a word,” Meidri assured.

The queen closed her eyes and smiled. 

“Do you remember our youth?” The queen murmured, voice more breath than sound.

“Yes, I remember it well,” Meidri tightened her grip on her sister’s hand, as though her strength alone could keep death away.

“I remember an endless summer,” The queen continued softly, “running and hiding from the fairies in the trees.”

“Days spent in the sun,” Meidri confirmed, a tear falling from her eye, as she willed herself to not interrupt any further.

She chose not to mar her sister’s peace with memories of the beatings and lectures that accompanied those endless summers.

A wide smile adorned the queen’s face, and her eyes opened. 

“That is what I wish for my children,” the queen gasped, her eyes far away, in a different world, “an endless summer, and long youth, life free from pain during childhood.”

“I want for them a sweet life,” she murmured dreamily, “and so should he be a boy, I want for him a sweet name.”

“Should he be a boy,” Kasia smiled joyously, “I should like him to be named Julian.” 

The queen gasped for breath in response to new pain, and her body quivered with cold. Once it faded, she shook with the effort of relaxing into the covers.

Despite the pain, she was not deterred.

“So that every time he hears his name, he knows he is loved and cherished,” the queen trembled, happy tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

“And his name shall be Julian,” she whispered, “as a blessing as well, of long lasting youth, and long lasting life, may he live eventful years, spent in happiness and peace.”

Suddenly the queen’s face twisted in grief.

“May he not be taken in war or violence,” she sobbed weakly, “as I know it is all too common.”

“Shhh…. Shhhhh,” Meidri comforted, running her free hand through her sister’s greasy light brown locks, brushing accidentally against her brooch, a family heirloom, till she calmed.

“And should she be a girl?” Meidri prodded, squeezing her sister’s hand for attention.

Kasia’s eyes fluttered, and she turned her head side to side. 

“Should she be a girl,” Kasia moaned, “I would like her to be strong and steadfast.”

Kasia’s teeth clenched.

“I would like her to be resolute and decisive, courageous in the face of uncertainty, and stubborn , where others would wither.

Kasia looked at her sister, finally seeing her.

“I would like her to have a choice in who to marry,” she whispered brokenly, searching her sister’s eyes, seeking validation, “I would like her to have more freedoms than you or I ever did.” 

Meidri shifted her gaze away from her sister, all too aware of the freedoms they both lacked.

“Should she be a girl, I would wish her to bow to no man, outside of those she loves,” Kasia murmured, gaze losing focus again.

Finally, the queen smiled sweetly, “I would like her to be named Renfri.”

At the admission, Meidri sighed, shoulders slumping. 

Across the room, hurried footsteps approached them both, the other side of the bed bowing with the weight of the king. 

The midwife stood back, hands behind her back, watching the scene without a sign as to what was going on in her head. 

The king grasped the queen’s other hand, a pained expression on his face. 

He kissed his wife’s hand, “My sweet, my dearest love.”

The queen focused, and smiled at the image of her husband, “Fredefalk, my love, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I’ve missed you dearly, I am sorry for keeping you waiting.”

“I forgive you,” The queen murmured, utterly besotted by the chocolate brown of her husband’s eyes.

At a wordless urge from the midwife, the king gritted his teeth, wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, aging him ten years, “There is something we must discuss, dearest.”

The queen’s brow furrowed, “What is it.”

“The baby is taking too long,” The king soothed.

The queen turned to look at the midwife, looking far more alive than she had in the previous two hours.

“Is this a problem?” She demanded.

The midwife hesitated. At the moment of silence, Kasia paused to look at the faces surrounding her, the worried pinch between her husband’s eyebrows, and the tear tracks underneath her sister’s eyes.

She swallowed, now all too aware of what was happening.

Kasia struggled to her elbows, wincing in pain. 

“You have to rest sissy!” Meidri cautioned, panicked at the thought of her sister injuring herself. 

However, Kasia did not even spare her a glance. No, her entire focus was on the midwife.

“What needs to be done?” Kasia trembled in pain, yet her voice remained resolute. 

The midwife approached, “ Should we prolong this much further, you babe will not live. They will suffocate inside your body.”

Kasia’s eyes widened in horror, and she used one hand to cradle her swollen belly. 

“No!” She shouted, “there has to be something that you can do!”

The midwife closed her eyes, and slowly opened them again.

“The other option is to cut open your belly, and free them myself, but it will not be gentle, and there is a chance… there is a chance you will not live through this your highness.”

Kasia’s face whitened further, and she turned to look at the bowed form of her husband, head hanging low with his lips to her clenched hand.

“So it is true,” Kasia murmured, devoid of emotion.

“I am giving you the choice,” The king struggled, his words warped by grief. 

Finally the queen’s gaze focused, and she turned to the midwife. 

“Save them,” she demanded, “save them now!” 

“I cannot give you any herbs to dull the pain, you are far too weak now,” the midwife cautioned.

“I don’t care!” The queen shrieked. “They’re dying right now!” She looked at her sister and husband, then back at the midwife, “my baby is dying,” she wailed. 

The midwife glanced at the king, awaiting his final decision.

The king started resolutely at his wife’s hand, clenched between two of his. 

The king shook his head despondently, before kissing his wife’s hand desperately. His head rose and sought out his wife’s gaze. Meidri grasped the soiled blankets underneath her, as the king fought against himself.

“Should they be birthed normally, there is a better chance, a healthier outcome..” the king hesitated, “a healthier outcome for you.”

“But she said its taking far too long,” the queen continued, confused, “If the birth continues as normal, then my baby will…” 

The queen paused, stunned by the defeated stance of her husband. He would not meet her gaze. 

“No…” she whispered softly, the realization apparent on her face. The world seemed to pause and darken, as the smell of her own blood suffocated her mouth and nose.

“No!” She belted out, fiercely, “No, this is my choice Fredefalk!” She turned to the midwife, eyes begging for the healer to agree

The midwife remained where she was, unmoved by her pleas. 

“Please,” she sobbed, at the lack of reaction “I have made my decision, I want them saved, I want them to live, I don’t care what you have to do!” The image in her mind of a gentle doting son, or beautiful and smart daughter, dashed to pieces of frail glass before it could even draw spectacle and wonder.

The king remained stone, unmoving. 

The queen took in great heaving breaths, panic overwhelming her at the thought of her babe perishing before even its first breath. The clawing, desperate monster inside her heart pounded and raged, protesting against her worst nightmare. She glared at her husband, and ripped her hand from his grasp. 

“I didn’t have a choice in marrying you.” Kasia gripped her husband’s wrist instead, her nails finding purchase amongst soft skin.

The king’s pale skin gave way against the assault, leaving trails of red ichor as complaint of its abuse. The king barely felt it, the stinging welts, he thought, were a welcome relief from the the horror he was subject to now.

“I had no choice in marrying you,” the queen accused, and forgot everyone else in the room, her singleminded focus on the man dictating her fate in front of her.

“You took what you wanted,” Kasia shuddered, and remembered the hushed words from her father, how proud he was. She went back six years ago, to a celebration in the household. Never mind that she would lose her sissy, her life, her home. It was an honor really. The most beautiful, decided by the king himself. 

She was desired, by her light brown hair, and sky blue eyes. The king chose from the fairest of the ladies, and with such criteria as the benchmark, she was deemed exceptional. That night, after the king declared her as his chosen, drinks were passed around. Her father celebrating, prancing like a peacock in the midst of summer. He took no worry at the sullen faces of other invited nobles. 

No, he could have cared less at their discontent.

He could have cared less about hers.

Because out of all the women in the court, his youngest prevailed amongst the best singers and the best dancers in the kingdom. 

And thus celebration went long into the night, the wine generously poured, and the revelry acceptably debauched.

And all through the night she sat silent, her sister and brother the only ones at her side, as a blur of people passed in front of them.

Both of them were acceptably joyous, as was proper, considering their sister was soon to be queen. Yet at not being addressed, their mouths remained closed, their silence off putting to the passing stranger. Their hands underneath the table, both clasped to one of hers, held her to the ground, before the world threatened fall below her and erase everything as she knew it. 

As no one cared to ask if she was happy. No one cared to ask if she felt safe. No one cared to ask if she was scared, at the prospect of marrying a king she had not met even once before. 

At sixteen years of age, she clenched her teeth and endured as others celebrated around her, unwilling to disappoint her father with her hysterics.

Kasia swallowed and buried those memories yet again, determined to remain in the present.

“And yet I grew to love you,” Kasia’s grip softened. 

“Don’t do this, don’t you dare, because the man who truly loves me, would never take this choice away from me.”

The king noted her trembling words and found the truth in his wife’s eyes. She would never forgive him is he chose to save her above his child. The thrumming pulse in his wrist slowed. And even as he felt his heart break, he could only nod to the midwife.

“Do what she asks.”

//////////////

The midwife emerged hours later, front, fore arms, and face drenched in gore. Her shoulders were held low, and her arms were limp at her sides. The crowd held themselves at a hushed silence, eyes widening as the still wet blood left a trail of droplets on the floor as the aged healer walked. A few slowly approached her, mouths gaping in the attempt of saying something, anything. 

“The King and Queen request that no one disturb them.” She said, voice hollow and eyes far away.

“I request a tub be brought to my chambers, as well as some hot water.” With that, the old woman hobbled away from them, her lame leg dragging behind her, allowing for even more accumulation of blood to cover the floor in her wake. 

Lord Pankratz stumbled after her, his son following behind him numbly. 

“The queen is my daughter,” he began, “I should wish to know her condition, -“

The crone chuckled dryly, blood dripping from her cheek, and a squelching sound came from her boots with every step she took.

“You want to know her condition?” she muttered grimly, “Can you not glean enough from my appearance?”

She gestured morbidly to her whole body, still covered in red.

“You are clever my lord,” she said, her eyes boring in Lord Pankratz, as if searching deep within his soul, “You know the answer to your own question.”

Before she could leave, Lord Pankratz gripped her wrist, unwilling to let her hobble away. The midwife sighed, strength gone, as she slumped even further where she stood. Weak and weary, as if finally feeling the weight of her years. She turned to Lord Pankratz one last time.

“Don’t make me answer your question my lord.”

Silas’ face paled, and with one last glance at his father, he turned and ran back through the corridor, pushing his way past the crowd of nobles and ignoring their complaints and grunts and he shoved them aside. 

His frenzied breathing warped the world around him, spreading the ice clutching his heart through his veins, threatening to freeze his arms and legs. He needed to see his sister, he needed to see her be fine, healthy, proud and happy with the energy of a new child. 

He ignored the guards urging him to remain outside and pushed past the heavy oak doors, desperate to see both his sisters, hoping, praying, that the midwife was wrong, simply exaggerating.

He was greeted by the image of Meidri, with her head on her arms at the edge of a bloodbath masquerading as a bed. Her hair was darker than normal, but that wasn’t right. His mind seemed to process the disturbing image slowly, as he realized that the reason Meidri’s hair was darker was because it was plastered with blood.

He swallowed, almost fearful to turn to look at the reason for his entrance. 

And there she was, his younger sister. Were it not for the gore covered blanket covering her belly, she would have looked as though she were sleeping. Yet, he could tell this was no easy slumber. He could see her chest rising and falling, and her hand moved weakly across her slightly flattened belly. And everything was red. The floor, slippery in ways he wished not to think about. The bed, originally white, lay in various stages of crimson, combining the old dried blood and the newest additions of ruby splatter. The only clean surface, was his sister’s face, pale as a piece of parchment, where there would usually be a healthy tan. 

He turned is gaze towards the king, clutching his wife’s face, weeping softly amongst the carnage. 

For one unreasonable moment, he hated that man, that man that led his sister to be butchered.

How dare he cry, he demanded in his head. How dare he cry, as his baby sister bled out at his orders. 

However, his rage fuel revelry was broken by a strangled moan from his sister, and the ice returned.

Frozen and scared, Silas was unable to move, his eyes glued to the two bundles of cloth held in Kasia’s surprisingly strong grasp.

Two babies, he shuddered, and stumbled forward, ignorant of the sympathetic look that Meidri sent him amongst her own sorrow. 

The king took no note of him, as he knelt at his sister’s side alongside with Meidri.

“Kasia,” He stuttered.

Kasia turned from her husband to her brother, her bloodless chapped lips smiled, happy at the sight of her kin.

“Silas,” she whispered glancing down at her children, before smiling up at her brother, “Aren’t they beautiful?”

He felt like a mute, speechless in response his sister’s unintentionally macabre smile. He could not compare the woman in front of him with the young, merry maiden that was his sister. 

Completely distracted, he barely noticed Meidri nudging him forward, gesturing to the babes in Kasia’s arms.

He leaned forward at Meidri’s urging, taking a moment to observe the tiny bodies cradled within white cloths.

The were wrinkled little things. Their faces were scrunched in displeasure, tiny tiny hands occasionally reaching to tug at cloth. One was strangely silent, seemingly content enough to be swaddled and held motionless. Their hair was a deep brown, and surprisingly thick for its young age. 

However, the second twin, while not crying, whimpered and gurgled. In stark contrast to its sibling, they seemed incapable of remaining quiet, as they cooed and cried, eyes open and curious.

Kasia beamed down at her babies, completely uncaring of somber atmosphere surrounding the people in the dim room.

“A boy and a girl,” she explained, patiently waiting for Silas to turn his attention to her. “A little prince and princess.”

“They’re beautiful sissy,” he choked out, unable to to say anything else.

The king could have switched places with a statue, unmoving, bent over the form of his wife and their children.

Silas clenched his hand, ignoring the heavy smell of blood and asked, “What is the name of my niece and nephew?”

She smiled lazily, content even as more blood trailed down the sides of her belly, the gaping hole in her stomach still raw.

“Renfri and Julian,” she said.

“Renfri and Julia,” he repeated numbly. He turned to look at his elder sister Meidri.

“Renfri was born first,” she explained in monotone, “we were not expecting,-“ her expression crumbled briefly, before she collected herself again, clearing her throat, “we were not expecting two, the reason for the bleeding, we could not have done anything more.”

Silas nodded, still unfeeling. How was he supposed to feel? His sister was already dead, a woman who’s time had run out. 

He shuddered. His sister was dying. She would be gone, he would never be able to speak to her again. Never be able to tell her the ways she made him laugh. He would never be able to tell her he missed their younger days, stealing extra portions from the household cook, giggling like fiends. He would never be able to tell her.. 

“I love you,” burst from his mouth, so unexpectedly that for a moment, he did not understand those words came from him. 

“Sissy,” he gasped like a man possessed, “In this family it is too often not said,” he grimaced, “but I love, you dearest sister,” he cradled her cheek with a hand. 

He needed her to understand, not able to elaborate in the presence of the king. He needed her to know that despite what their father thought, he was not the same. It was wrong, he realized, all those years ago when she was first chosen by the king. He was wrong, he should have said something, he should have stood up to their father all those years ago, should have braved any punishment. He should have done more for her, much more for her, than just let here leave on a quiet spring afternoon.

Kasia’s expression became somber, understanding.

“I know Silas,” she whispered, “I love you too.”

“and you too Meidri,” she smiled knowingly, turning to look at her sister, trying to say goodbye in her own way.

Silas stood, “I’ll go get father,” he headed towards door.

“No,” said Kasia, causing Silas to stop abruptly, back tense.

“I don’t want him here,” she muttered, “he wouldn’t come anyway, even if you asked.” Silas blinked, hesitating before making his way back to his sister’s.

“What I need you to do, both of you,” she struggled to gather strength, “is promise to take care of them both.”

Kasia did not need to specify who she was talking of, both siblings understood.

“I’m not blind,” Kasia hushed Julian, struggling to speak over his cooing, “I know I won’t be here much longer.”

At her side the king moaned, pained at the prospect of losing his wife.

She spared him a sympathetic gaze.

“I ask this of you as well, my love.”

Fredefalk finally showed his face, wet and grimacing, barely able to look his wife in the eye.

Kasia gripped her babies as close as possible, before addressing the three of them together.

“I love them more than anything in this world,” she breathed out, enchanted by the curls of hair over the twin’s heads.

“I wont be here for when they grow up,” she struggled to get the words out, tiredness along with pain at the thought of her babies being alone, straining her voice. 

Her face tightened, shifting uncomfortably as she grew colder. 

“Renfri and Julian are going to need all three of you,” she whispered, “Take care of them I beg you, do what I cannot.”

Meidri placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder, “I promise sissy,” she blinked tears out of her eyes, a bitter smile on her face.

“I promise as well,” Silas said, joining Meidri.

Fredefalk put his lips on his joined hands, eyes squeezed shut and a grimace still on his face.

“Please leave us,” the king asked, not glancing at either of them.

Both Meidri and Silas looked at each other, unsure, as they knew it might be the last time they saw their sister alive.

“It’s ok,” Kasia reassured, a gentle yet sad smile upon her face.

“You’ve said your goodbyes, now give me mine.

Silas moved to protest, but was stopped by Meidri gripping his sleeve. He turned to look at her as she slowly shook her head.

Silas worked his jaw stubbornly, turning back to look Kasia, desperate to not leave.

“This is not a request,” Fredefalk said, some strength returning to his voice, head still bowed, “I am ordering you to leave.”

Silas swallowed, his brows furrowing as he moved to protest, before Meidri pulled at his sleeve again. She shook her head minutely, imploring him to not disobey.

Silas paused, breathed out deeply with closed eyes, before admitting defeat.

“Yes your majesty,” he struggled out, before walking to the doors, slamming them open in his anger and rushing through, leaving the king and queen alone with Meidri.

“Please forgive my brother Your Majesty,” Meidri whispered desperately, curtsying in front of the king, “he knows not how he acts.” She dare not meet the king’s eyes, especially not after her brother disgraced their lord with his departure. 

Kasia rubbed at the kings wrist tenderly, distracting him from her brother’s sudden exit.

“Fine,” Fredefalk breathed out, eyes only for his wife. 

He waved Meidri away nonchalantly, uncaring as Miedri curtseyed again in relief, and left through the door, shutting it quietly behind her. 

“My love,” she began.

“No!” King Fredefalk shouted, rising from his wife’s side to pace at the sticky floor of the room.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen!” He wailed, hands clutching his hair

“You were supposed to stay with me!” He gestured violently at himself, “We were all supposed to be a family!” 

The king continued pacing, rubbing his hands roughly against his face.

“My love.”

“No!”

“Fredefalk!” Kasia yelled, her scream cut off by groan as her sudden movement jostled the wound on her belly. 

Fredefalk rushed back to Kasia’s side, concerned and hovering until Kasia waved her away, shaking her head. 

“Fredefalk, I’m going to die.”

Fredefalk shook his head, his hand desperately grasping for his wife, afraid to let her her go. 

“I’m going to die,” she repeated, “But your son and daughter will still be here.”

“They need you.” Kasia pleaded.

“I need you!” Fredefalk roared, his voice a juxtaposition as his hands stroked gently over his wife’s hair. The two babes in her arms whined at the sudden outburst from their father, only to be hastily calmed by their mother as rocked both of them with what little strength she had left.

His shoulders trembled, wishing nothing more than to bury his head and forget about this day.

Kasia’s eyes softened, “You’ll always have me.”

“But they won’t have me Fredefalk, they need their father.”

“I don’t want to do this without you,” he mumbled, holding her to him as closely as he could.

“You have to,” her voice soft in the silence of the room. 

“Look at them,” she urged, moving her babies toward their father, “Renfri has your nose,” she cooed. 

Fredefalk turned to look at his daughter, his grief slightly shadowed at the wriggling sign of new life. He took Renfri from his wife’s arms as though in a trance, bringing her close to his face in wonder as trailed a hand down her plump cheek.

“You said you would love them no matter what, whether they were a boy or a girl, well, now you have both.”

Fredefalk watched as his wife cradled their son, letting Julian grip her thumb as she used her other hand to brush over chocolate tresses. Newborn blue eyes studied their mother, as the baby gurgled, a smile overtaking his face and his toes wriggled from the confines of their blanket. 

“My darling boy,” Kasia said, tracing Cupid bow lips with a finger that was soon captured by Julian in a surprisingly strong grip. 

King Fredefalk watched the scene in front of him, while feeling the weight of his daughter in his arms.

“I promise to take care of them Kasia,” Fredefalk hugged his daughter closer. The admission took more from him than he expected. His bones ached, and his temples throbbed. The very acceptance of his wife’s mortality felt like a betrayal against her. His very being raged against it.

However, the same image of his wife holding their son so gently and lovingly, tempered his grief, and the selfish, angry being inside him, that urged to fight death itself, just for another hour in her embrace, released his heart from a vice grip. 

He thought it impossible, to feel so happy and full, and yet so sad and empty at the same time.

“I will love them with my every breath,” Fredefalk cradled his daughters head, the promise more directed to the darling babe in his arms and his son, than his wife. Renfri did indeed have his nose, he mused, a spark of light in this dark, dark day. Her eyes, although still blue as any newborn’s, were darker than Julian’s.

Kasia relaxed, her eyes drooping from exhaustion, finally letting herself be at peace knowing her children would be cared for. 

“Fredefalk,” she breathed and held her arms out, “let me hold them both.”

Fredefalk kneeled to his wife’s height, handling his daughter over, cradling the back of her neck until Kasia was able to take over support.

Fredefalk kept a hand on both children, holding them in place against the mother. Her grip so weak, she could no longer reliably support the twins against her. 

Kasia blinked slowly, entranced by both of her children’s petite faces. 

Her breathing was slowing, growing shallower. She no longer felt pain, her body pleasantly numb and cold. The acute heat from her babies tethering her to the bed. 

“I love you my dear hearts,” Kasia murmured, eyes fluttering. 

She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. 

She looked down, her cheek slumping against the pillow.

“I love you both with all my heart,” she croaked out, voice carrying like a soft breeze, “and I beg you never, ever, forget it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took that last sentence directly from the Tudors. I couldnt help myself, it was perfect in this case.
> 
> After I finish editing the rest of the mega chapter, I’ll post it.
> 
> However, Aridea and Meidri still have a huge role to play in this story, so prepare to read a bit more about them. 
> 
> The next couple of chapters are going to include Jaskier and Renfri’s childhood, (or lack thereof) 
> 
> Thank you so much for the support so far! All your lovely comments make me want to write more!


	4. Our good fortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to think that the reason this chapter took so long, was because all the other writers on here updated, and kept me distracted, hahaha.. seriously, you guys rock. 
> 
> Anyway here’s another chapter, please enjoy!

The ceiling of the Apse lay rigorously decorated. The light filtering from the stained glass windows threw a kaleidoscope of rainbows across the marble floor, illuminating the faces of those gathered. Heavy metallic cylinders of incense hung from the ceiling, its surface decorated in images of the great mother and other glorious deities. 

Meidri thought it macabre, for such a beautiful morning to herald the end of a life. 

Nothing should seem beautiful on this day, and yet the birds sang and the wind blew, the sun shone and the clouds flew. The world didn’t care for the death of the Queen of Creyden. Nature continued, even when life ended. Even when her sister’s life ended. Even when her body stopped thrumming with warmth, a peasant on the other side of the country went about their daily life, unknowing and uncaring.

The thought that other beings continued, as though the world were the same, seemed absurd to her.

Surely, others must see the change as well. Surely, the birds must mourn her loss. Surely others, saw the world in gray as she now did.

Meidri swallowed strongly, holding her composure. It gnawed at her, the sad wraith inside her that wished nothing more than to bend and bow, weeping as though a dead thing’s hand clutched her heart. It felt like a great pressure inside her, contained for the moment, the calm before the storm. She held it deep within her, locked under key. She didn’t want to let it out. She couldn’t let it out, with prying eyes and unfriendly gazes near her. She could never let it go, she would never allow herself to even hold the key.

The cold held within paralyzed her, clawing and tearing inside her heart, and she wondered what she would do, how she would feel, when it burned instead of froze.

Hesberth the Innocent held the holy scripture above his head, chanting the mourning hymn, his voice loud despite considerable number of people surrounding him. 

“Oh our venerable lady, help to guide your lost.”

Meidri held her hands clasped together with her head bowed, as her elbows lay on top of the pew in front of her. She, along with the rest of those gathered, were on their knees. The priest’s voice felt distant, as though transferred through a hollow pipe. She could hear her father’s breathing. The gray haired man held his eyes tightly shut, a further quiet murmuring coming from the lips he held so close to his clasped hands. He was the very image of grief. 

Even further to the left, she heard her brother’s trembling voice, struggling to remain composed during the mourning. 

He’d never truly been as able to hide, not like her. It was a freedom she was not sure she envied.

“Oh venerable lady,” she repeated monotonously, as the rest of the nobility chorused, “help to guide your lost.”

Her words did not tremble, even when her heart shattered to pieces deep inside. 

Priest Hesberth continued, waving the holy book above her sister’s corpse upon an altar, the kneeling form of the king gripping the edge of the coffin where she lay. He was closest to her, as was the husband’s right in mourning.

You don’t deserve to be there.

The thought came unbidden to her, watching as he mourned.

He was her husband. But did he wipe the sweat from her brow when she became ill at seven? Did he play dolls with her till late at night? Did he tell her story after story till his throat was raw and lids heavy.

No, he never did

Lady Meidri held her head down, as Hesberth continue reciting.

“Clear the path back into your generous lands.”

On each side of the king, two nurse maids cradled intricately sown cloth bundles. Tiny fingers and hands could be seen waving above them, trying to work their way free of the cloth. Julian was to the king’s left. Meidri could tell even without raising her head. He was the only one of the two cooing and gurgling to his heart’s content, much more lively than his sister. 

“Clear the path back to your generous lands,” Meidri muttered. 

The sight of her niece and nephew was the only ray of light to penetrate her rather dark and dreary day. That too, the king took from her, and her brother. Three days after the birth, and still, the king kept them from the rest of their family. Julian and Renfri were hardly hours old, and her sister cold to the touch, before Fredefalk whisked them away to be checked by his personal healer. 

For three days he kept them shrouded from the outside within the supposed safety of the royal chambers. The only ones allowed to see them were highly trusted nursemaids, and servants from outer territories, who were in no way connected to any noble families.

The mere thought of strangers touching her sister’s babes turned her blood into boiling fire. She understood the dangers, could even understand Fredefalk’s caution to a certain degree. They were born during dangerous times. To some, they should not have been allowed to be born at all. The prophecy marked them as monsters, bound to bring misery to their kingdom. There was certainly no shortage of dangers or threats to the prince and princess. Furthermore, they were his only heirs, and if court law were taken into account, then only Julian could be considered his true and lawful heir. 

However, she could not condone her only niece and nephew being kept from her, from her brother. They were hers, she thought furiously. They were hers just as they were his.

“Erase their sorrows, and ease any earthly pain,” Hesberth chanted, his eyes glued to the heavens.

“Erase their sorrows, and ease any earthly pain,” Meidri repeated.

Hesberth abruptly snapped the books shut, placing it on another intricately carved altar. 

She along with the rest of the those that were gathered, rose to their feet while their hands remained clasped together. 

A group of servants entered the room from shadowed doors, making their way over to the small platform that held the queen’s body. Their faces were solemn as they gripped the lid and closed the ornate coffin shut. 

King Fredefalk shakily rose to his feet, his guards immediately flanking him and the two nursemaids carrying his children. He paused, his face unchanging, while waiting for the servants to get a good grip on the edges of the coffin, before placing himself and the nursemaids ahead. 

As King Fredefalk marched ahead with his entourage, Hesberth followed behind, hands extended with his palms facing the heavens. 

“And now we accompany our queen on her final steps.”

Hesberth hurriedly descended two steps, struggling as he shifted his long robes out of the way.

Meidri followed her brother and father, as the moved to walk directly behind her sister’s coffin. As the closest family aside from the king, it was their right. 

“And now we accompany our queen in her final steps,” Meidri parroted, her family keeping behind the priest by exactly three steps. 

Meidri walked numbly, barely registering the bowed heads of the still standing nobles as they walked. Lord, councilors, members of the privy council, all remained silent as the morbid procession passed them by. The heavy weight of the emerald and ruby studded pendant tugged on her head, uncomfortably pulling at her hair. It must have come loose at some time during the mourning.

Meidri dare not try to adjust it now, for despite their bowed heads, those gathered would no doubt notice the slight movement, considered a sign of disrespect during such an important ceremony. A glint of gold caught Meidri’s gaze. From the corner of her eye, Meidri spied Lady Aridea, her head bowed just like the rest of them. 

Her father Lord Eldor was at her side, silent and and a statuesque as any. 

As Meidri passed them by, preparing for the blinding light of the sun outside, she felt a strange prickling behind her. The hairs on the back of her head rose, and her skin prickled as though a breeze were brushing against her. However, there was no wind on that day. 

She shuddered.

Unthinkingly, Meidri stopped mid step and looked behind her, completely unaware and uncaring of the procession continuing without her. She hugged herself with her arms. 

Yet, when she turned to look back, she only caught sight of the respectfully bowed head from Lord Eldor and Lady Aridea. She looked the exact same as before, the only noticeable difference coming from the gentle swaying of her hair from some invisible breeze.

Meidri frowned and shivered again.

She slowly turned to look forward again, only to jump as a hand clutched her wrist tightly. 

Silas pulled at her gently, slowly shaking his head, his expression worried and baffled as he guided her back to her rightful position behind the procession. She followed absentmindedly, frowning in confusion. He opened his mouth as though to say something, only to be stopped by a cough from their father. 

He was furious. She could tell. His calm placid features did nothing to hide his true emotions from her. It was in the grip of his fist, in the strained line of his shoulders, in the intensity of his gaze. 

Before the king or anyone else noticed, Meidri shrugged her brother’s hand from her wrist and straightened any invisible wrinkles from her dress, ignoring the wounded look on his face. She rushed the first couple steps, attempting to catch up to her brother’s side as quickly as possible. 

She avoided her father’s gaze, aware of her lack of etiquette. 

Ahead of them, the priest muttered some more utter nonsense that she was unable to comprehend.

As the sun finally hit her chilled skin, all she could think about was the sensation she felt earlier. Her hands shuffled nervously, as she reviewed that moment in her mind, over and over in a loop. There was nothing there, no one behind her. So why did she react that way? Why did she react so unlike herself?

A warm grip stopped her fidgeting. 

She looked up only find Silas holding her hand. Her father was slightly ahead of them now, his eyes facing forward, distracted by some view up ahead, allowing Silas certain freedoms. 

He smiled sadly, and squeezed her hand slightly, her heart thrumming at the feeling.

It was their signal. Amongst the three siblings. It was their signal asking the other if they were fine. It was made to help Kasia mostly, when words were far too obvious amongst the king’s court. 

Meidri jerked her gaze away, seemingly enthralled by the buckle of the shoes she was wearing. She trembled slightly, unwilling, unable, to look at her brother’s face again. 

Silas squeezed again.

Her mouth puckered and her sight wavered, suspiciously blurry as her surroundings lost focus. 

And for the first time since her sister’s death, she allowed the unrelenting and merciless wave of grief to overwhelm her. She whimpered, unable to hold it completely within her. The desire to curl into a ball and fall apart was overpowering. Thankfully, the sound was mostly covered by more of Hesberth’s prayers.  
She sniffled, and hastily wiped an errant tear off her cheek. 

Amongst the sunlight of a new day, she squeezed back.

“I’m ok.”

Meidri hastened to her father’s chamber, along with Silas. Their clothes were still the customary black, even days after their sister’s burial. Despite the heavy skirts weighing Meidri down, they both hurried along to their father’s chambers, as he was not a man to be kept waiting. His summons were often neither for leisure nor enjoyment. 

They tried to remain inconspicuous, passing by people in the hallways quickly and discretely. Their hurried footsteps thundered however, for with their rush, it was impossible to remain quiet despite their best efforts. 

Finally reaching his door, Silas stepped in front of her, opening the door and allowing her through first, before passing through himself. 

Silas quietly closed the door behind him. 

“Father?” Meidri called out, moving her head from one side to the other, searching yet not seeing him anywhere in his chambers

At her calling, the bedroom door opened, revealing the stern and strained face of their father, his mask finally gone with the absence of others. 

He walked in their direction, setting up a table in the common area, almost rushed in his movements. 

“Sit,” he said stoically, not even pausing to look at them while he finished laying out parchments of paper on the table. 

Meidri and Silas shared a worried look before complying, the scratching of the chairs as they pulled them, grating on their ears. 

Meidri snuck a peek at the numerous parchments, trying to understand the reason for their father laying them out on the table. He was part of the king’s council, therefore he often took part in various legal and administrative issues regarding the kingdom. It was not strange to see papers strewn all over their father’s table. What was strange, was that he was laying them out, for them.

With the way Silas was eyeing the parchment in front of him, it was clear he was intrigued as well. 

“Father,” Silas began hesitantly, “… why did you summon us?”

Lord Pankratz finally finished laying out his documents, arranging them carefully on the table, tilting them just so. After meticulously placing quills on the table as well, he moved towards his own chair on the other side of the table, facing his children. 

The waning sunlight from the window created rainbows on the floor, and brought different patterns of colors upon their faces

“You don’t know?” Lord Pankratz asked wryly, his hand propping his chin as the rest of his body relaxed into the plush of his chair.

Truly the image of a mourning father, Meidri thought. 

At here side, Silas floundered, unsure of what to say. 

“Ehh, well, no,” Silas waved his hands around them, gesturing to the room. His expression lively, even as the shadows under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights.

They more than spoke. He wasn’t as quiet in the night as he thought.

“I really don’t know why we’re here.”

“Well,” Lord Pankratz held a glass of wine between his fingers, idly rotating it from the stem, watching the waning light from outside painting colors on the glass. He seemed utterly fixated on the glass cup. 

“That’s good,” Lord Pankratz set the glass down on the oak table, finally directing his gaze towards the both of them, “It means no one else knows why you’re here either.”

“What do you mean?” Meidri spoke, her voice soft between the two men. 

“To everyone outside, this looks like a family fathering,” Lord Pankratz held his arms wide, his face smug, “blinded by the tight grip of grief, busy mourning,”

Silas bit the inside of his cheek, and his hands gripped the armrests on his chair tightly.

“And that’s not what we are?” he demanded, eyes hot.

“No boy!” Lord Pankratz slammed both his hands against the table, his children jumping across from him in surprise. 

Lord Pankratz breathed harshly, before reigning in his temper. He quickly relaxed into his chair again, the picture of poise and relaxation, as though he hadn’t slammed his hands against the table in fury two seconds prior. 

“Think, both of you,” he he reached for his wine glass, taking a sip, “this is an advantage.”

Silas stood so quickly, that the force of his movement pushed the chair back, sending that horrid screeching through all their ears yet again. 

“Our sister is not yet cold in the ground,” Silas bit out, his teeth clenched as the vein in his forehead bulged, “and here you sit, already planning another of your little schemes.” 

Lord Pankratz did not answer, seemingly engrossed in his wine glass yet again, as though unable to hear his son. 

“I can’t sleep at night,” Silas hissed, planting his hands on the oak table, “not with the thought of my little sister, given away as though she were some farm animal for slaughter.”

Silas turned away, unable to look at his father, unwilling to look at his sister.

“She was too young,” he choked out, his shoulders bowed as though he were carrying some heavy weight. 

“And everyday I will live with the guilt,” Silas squeezed his eyes shut, his head bowed, “that I did not protest when you sent her away, and look at where she is now.”

Lord Pankratz took another sip from his wine glass, “Sit down Silas.”

Silas sputtered, but at the cold continued stare from his father, he did as he was asked. He fell into the chair slowly and crossed his arms, looking anywhere but at the man in front of him.

Lord Pankratz directed his attention from his son to his rather quiet daughter. He stroked the rim of his wine glass, a slight smile on his lips despite his son’s obstinate nature. 

“You always were the smart one Meidri,” he began, eyes boring a hole into her soul, ”I think you already know why you’re here.”

Silas ignored his father’s insult, content enough by leveling him with a glare.

Meidri held his gaze, unflinching despite its intensity. She gazed into the dark blue depths, cold and frigid, the same color as her own. 

She could see the gears turning in his head. She even fancied, that if she struggled hard enough, she could almost hear his whispering, harrowing thoughts. 

She shuddered slightly, taking a deep breath through her nose. He was right. It was obvious.

She wished it weren’t so obvious.

She let that breath out, “you want me to talk with the king.”

Lord Pankratz smiled again. He shook his wine glass gently, staring intently at his daughter.

Silas shifted his gaze between his father and his sister, his glare outright forgotten as his brows furrowed.

“Why?” He stumbled out, “Why would we want Meidri meeting with him, the man won’t even speak to his own council.”

Their father settled his glass on the table and pushed his chair back. Lord Pankratz stood, making his way towards Meidri. 

Meidri felt her father’s strong grip on her shoulders. The heavy smell of dulled wine enveloped her, growing stronger when her father opened his mouth to speak. She fought the urge to flee. 

“Our futures were made when your sister was queen,” Lord Pankratz squeezed her shoulders briefly, before continuing, “and now, we are thrown into limbo once again.”

Silas’s lips became a taught line, the vein in his forehead throbbing again, “You could lose all of us,” he hissed, “and you still wouldn’t care, all you would care about is finding new puppets to manipulate to replace the ones you lost.”

Lord Pankratz let go of Meidri’s shoulders abruptly, rushing to a wine bottle in the corner of the room to refill his glass. His steps were bumbling and unsteady.

“It is because I care about this family, that I speak to you both plainly,” he grunted, shifting slightly as his hip caught the edge of an armchair on his way back to their table. 

“You’re no longer children, therefore there is no need to hide less pleasant details.” He placed the wine bottle on the oak table before returning to his chair.

Silas drummed his fingers on the table, the wrinkles around his mouth crinkling from his frown. It added years to his face. Years that Meidri did not like seeing on his normally youthful appearance.

“Our dead sister is gone,” he whispered, the veins in his face all the more apparent due to paleness of his skin, “yet her children remain.”

Meidri watched her brother founder for words, a war raging on his face, as the only reaction from their father was to pull the wine bottle and glass closer together. Silas bit his lip, frustration plain on his face.

“Suppose I humor you father,” Silas said, directing his eyes towards Lord Pankratz, whose attention seemed glued on slipping the cork from the wine bottle. He seemingly ignored his son’s words.

“Our sister is dead and you worry over our position in the king’s courts,” Silas leaned forward slowly, his hand tapping erratically on the table, “but your grandchild is the heir to this kingdom, and our nephew.”

Leaning back into the back of his chair, Silas hunched in on himself, staring intently at the table.

“Our positions are assured,” Silas muttered solemnly, his eyes far away, “now all that is left to us, is to mourn.”

Meidri watched as their father stilled in his attempts to uncork the wine bottle.

At garnering no response from neither father nor sister, Silas stood up. He pushed his chair back gently, before turning around and walking to the door. He was going to leave, Meidri thought. A rare occurrence for any man, she also thought, that any person leave their father mid conversation. 

She too wished to leave. Push the table away, forget the strange documents in front of them. Forget the heavy scent of wine shrouding their father. She wanted to forget it all. But still, she remained motionless. The terrible, niggling, treacherous part of her that yearned to understand their father kept her seated. She knew there would be no happiness revealed here, in this room. She was not foolish. Her father was not in the business of bringing joy. Yet she stayed, even as Silas moved to leave, as her curiosity was yet unsated.

Meidri watched his departure, his back moving further away, until she heard a low chuckle behind her.

She turned her head back to her father, eyes wide. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noticed that Silas had paused and turned his head as well. His laughter was an unsettling sound. A sound so strange, that for a moment she had to pause and wonder whether their father was choking on some invisible object, rather than letting out some chuckle. 

Lord Pankratz held himself hunched over his wine, his shoulders shaking. He’d apparently abandoned his previous task.

Lord Pankratz lifted his head, and at seeing his children’s horrified faces, his lips spread into a huge grin. He let out a booming cough, before finally giving in, and dissolving into roaring laughter.

Silas approached his father warily, his hands held raised, “Father?...” 

While still laughing, Lord Pankratz deftly uncorked the wine bottle, and poured a generous amount into his glass cup. 

“You’re all fools!” he chortled, his shoulders shaking as he was still unable to control his guffawing. His laughter was eerie in contrast to the silence from his children. Despite their lack of humor, he only laughed harder, as though aware of some joke they could never hope to hear or understand. 

Meidri stood frozen, watching as their father pulled the wine bottle closer, gripping it as if It were some totem of the goddess.

Meidri stood slowly, her eyes on her father, as she hesitantly reached for the wine bottle, “Father, perhaps we should all retire for the night.”

As fast as a viper, Lord Pankratz snatched the wine bottle from Meidri’s hands. His face stiffened, features growing hard and his eyes blazing. It was obvious his previous merriment was long gone, in a whiplash of changing emotion so severe and quick that both siblings flinched. 

“Enough!” He roared, slamming the wine bottle against the oak table, generating enough force to jostle the papers and quill. 

Meidri thought it a miracle it didn’t shatter.

“Sit,” he ordered with his teeth clenched, “the both of you, we’re not done.”

The previous bright sunlight from the window was long gone, rendering the room with heavy with shadows. Meidri dragged her arms underneath the table, before clasping her hands together into tight fists. She watched as Silas warily returned to the table, eyeing their father. Finally both of them were back in their seats, waiting, watching, as indiscernible emotions passed through their father’s eyes.

Lord Pankratz broke the silence.

“Your nephew? Your niece?” Lord Pankratz snarled, eyes blazing embers despite their blue hue.

“They were born under the black sun,” he said, slamming a fist against the table. The resulting impact jostled the table again, threatening the stability of parchment, paper, and glass. Meidri watched as they trembled, almost spilled, yet steadied at the last moment.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Silas asked, teeth clenched.

“Everything,” Lord Pankratz said, downing another sip of wine. Meidri watched a trail of liquid slip past his lips, making a slow trip past the rest of his cheek. He finished drinking, not making a single move to wipe his face. 

Meidri said nothing. She knew better. She kept a straight back, and an empty gaze, while Silas trembled in anger beside her. Silas could get as angry as he wanted, their father would not care. Frankly, she thought, it seemed he thrived on their misery. 

Yet, she also thought, her body thrumming with nervous energy.

She watched as he took yet another sip of wine.

he now also seems to take pleasure in his own suffering.

“Your niece and nephew,” he continued, “could very well end up being bastards within the year.”

Meidri’s blood froze in her veins. Her eyes widened, realization flooding through her body. 

“What in Melitle’s tits are you talking about?” Silas screamed, his patience at an end, coupled with confusion and fear at his father’s words.

“They were born during the black sun prophecy you fool,” Lord Pankratz’s gravelly voice sounding tired, “a prophecy that speaks of the end of the spheres, caused by cursed children, born during the eclipse.”

Their father set his wine glass down, his face serious, “They’re cursed, born cursed, and that’s how everyone else is going to see them.”

Meidri looked down at her lap, her hands clawing at the fabric of her dress.

“They’re abominations, specters that should never have been allowed to live in the first place.”

Silas’s eyes grew wide, “They’re your grandchildren,” he gasped in horror, “they’re just babies, how can you say that?”

Their father shook his head, “That’s not what everyone else will see.”

“The king loves them,” Silas said desperately, “He dotes on them, won’t let them out of his sight!”

Lord Pankratz snorted, “And what do you think will happen to that love if none of the other kingdoms recognize them as Fredefalk’s heirs? If no noblemen rally behind them?”

“I don’t understand, why would that even be a possibility?” Silas said, his voice weak with horror.

He turned to look at his sister, hoping for some defense against their father’s words, but he found none. She couldn’t offer one. She was far away, picturing the desolate future that their father painted. If she understood correctly, interpreted her father’s ramblings correctly… then they weren’t safe. 

Her niece and nephew weren’t safe. 

He shook his head, “I don’t understand,” Silas repeated, eyes wide and his voice now a whisper.

“King Fredefalk broke the law by allowing them to be born. Eldor and the rest of the noblemen might rally against them, citing their curse and subsequent birth as a failing to uphold the realm’s laws. It may also very well be the case that neighboring kingdoms consider them bastards already, their very existence a break in order. If none of the other kingdoms recognize them as Fredefalk’s heirs, then they will not offer them important marriages. They’ll be shunned, forever under scrutiny, surrounded by unfaithful nobles, and Fredefalk will have to declare them bastards at the very least, or his line will die out,” Meidri said, her voice soft.

Lord Pankratz chuckled, his laughter lacking joy, and he lifted his wine glass in a mockery of a toast.

“The smart one,” he mocked, tipping his head at her before taking a long gulp. 

“That can’t happen, he doesn’t have any other heirs,” Silas argued, but doubt crept into his voice.

“The king is a young man yet,” Lord Pankratz said idly, rotating the wine glass in his fingers. 

He lifted his eyes, staring at them both, “what’s to stop him from marrying again to have more heirs, replacing my grandchild?”

“That’s why you want me to meet with the king,” Meidri said, her voice level, while her heart began to thump unevenly.

Lord Pankratz grimaced, as though in the presence of a particularly foul smell, “I’ve heard talk amongst the other nobles. There are already rumors of Lord Eldor and other allies planning to place his daughter within the king’s reach.”

“Of course,” their father continued, “there are smaller factions who are also keen to curry favor, but none are so determined as Eldor.”

“But what do you gain from Meidri speaking with the king?” Silas asked, his brows furrowed. He looked in her direction, worry beginning to cloud his chocolate brown eyes. 

“You are older than your sister, Meidri,” her father eyed her intently, ignoring Silas completely “yet surely you must know of ways, to…...” Lord Pankratz paused, searching for the words, “distract the king…. From any other pursuits?”

Silas started, disgust and shock etched on his features. 

“You’re insane,” Silas said incredulously, his eyes wide. 

“And you’re an idiot,” Lord Pankratz snapped, “if your niece and nephew become bastards, we lose everything we fought for! All the work your sister did elevating our family gone! My place in the privy council, and our family’s noble status, gone!”

Silas stood, slamming his hands on the table, his face red, “I’d rather lose every single title in our family’s name, then send off another sister for that man to ruin!” He snarled.

“And you’re blind boy!” their father shouted, his face also red, but not from anger, “the king didn’t ruin your sister, she ruined herself!”

“Of course he did!” Silas shrieked, “that selfish king couldn’t even bother to hire a mage for the birth!”

At that, Silas melted, his anger turning to grief.

“A queen,” he whispered, “my sister, attended to by a mere midwife.”

“If she’d been in the presence of a witch,” he continued, “she would have lived.”

“That’s what you think?” The their father said numbly, his anger also forgotten as a dumbfounded expression took over his face, “you’re mistaken.”

“Even you know, don’t deny it, if there were a mage present in the room, my sister would have lived.” Silas thundered.

“The king did call for a mage or witch.” Lord Pankratz said, tone light an airy.

Silas’s mouth fell open, “Then why? Why was there no mage present?” 

A heavy silence fell upon the room as Lord Pankratz grimaced, looking away from his two remaining children to take another gulp from his wine glass. Meidri noted the unsteadiness of his hands, the near empty wine bottle.

“They wouldn’t do it, would they papa?” Meidri asked, her eyes crossed the table towards the slumped form of her father.

“They refused,” Lord Pankratz slurred, pressing his forehead against the wine bottle, “No matter how much gold was offered,” Lord Pankratz’s grip on the bottle tightened, “no matter how much I threatened, they would not aid, called their existence an anomaly, didn’t care that my daughter would also pay the price for their dissent. Both Aretuza and Ban Ard refused.”

Silence descended fell upon the room again. The only noise to be heard was Silas’s ragged breathing, and the hoot of an owl outside. Meidri noted how heavy darkness now replaced the previously filtering sunlight. She could barely see her father’s face across from her. 

She sighed, and stood up. 

“Where are you going?” Silas demanded. His eyes were wide and his breaths fast and shallow.

“To light the candles,” she answered patiently. It was dark now, yes. However, she would do anything to distance distance herself from them. The aura surrounding them threatened to break her calm, and she could not let that happen. 

She crossed the room, towards a hanging on the wall. It contained candle, obviously previously melted. It was short, but would do nicely. She reached fort he matches placed next to it, drawing it harshly against the box once, twice, finally three times. The wick lit the room brilliantly, spreading shadows past the table onto the wall. She pressed the wick to the candle’s wick, sharing the flame, until the candle too, burned brilliantly. 

She proceeded to do the same with three other similarly placed candles around the room. 

“I warned her,” she heard her father mutter behind her, “I warned her to get rid of them.”

“she could have always tried for more children,” he crooned woefully. 

For once Silas said nothing, she heard not a single word from him.

Finally finished with her task, Meidri rejoined her brother and father, clasping her hands together. 

“Now you see the danger we are in. Eldor and his mange ridden dogs smell an opportunity,” their father slurred, pouring the rest of the wine into his glass. The last thin stream fled the wine bottle, drawing a confused glance from their father that quickly turned to annoyance. No more wine flowed despite his increasingly manic jostling. He brought the bottle closer to his eye, searching for any last drop. 

He found none.

His expression turned stormy, and he grunted, throwing the bottle to the side onto the floor.

All three ignored the crashing, as the bottle burst into hundreds of shattered pieces. 

He was good at that, Meidri thought.

Shattering things beyond repair.

“Measures must be taken to guarantee our position,” their father’s unsteady hands brushed over the parchments on the table, “The king must not have more heirs.”

Bleary eyes rose to meet hers, “Any child could unseat your nephew, if the rest of the nobles ever went against Fredefalk. At the very least, it could inspire instability during my grandchild’s reign.”

Lord Pankratz winced, “At the very worst it could lead to a civil war.” 

“Do you both understand the position we are in?” Their father’s bloodshot eyes struggled to focus on their faces. 

Silas breathed in through his nose. His head was bowed while he rubbed at his face with his hands, at the very end gripping his hair. After a moment, he let out the breath slowly. He lifted his head and leaned back, letting the back of his armchair take his weight. 

He nodded, his face solemn, so unlike the the brother she knew. 

Meidri faced their father, “Yes papa, we understand.”

Lord Pankratz nodded slowly, as though confirming something to himself. 

He cleared his throat, and promptly gestured to the parchment in front of them. 

“Now, you’ve no doubt noticed the documents in front of you.”

Meidri kept her eyes on her father, pausing, silently asking for permission. 

Silas watched. He made no move himself to read the documents. If their father denied Meidri, then no doubt the documents would remain a mystery to him as well. 

Lord Pankratz tilted his head and gestured with his hand, urging her onward.

Both Silas and Meidri wasted no time. They both grasped the parchment closest to them.

Meidri skimmed, catching certain words, frowning as all she found was witness testimony followed by signatures. She reached for more documents, barely pausing to notice as Silas did the same. There were so many, pages and pages of names she’d never heard, followed by their signatures. 

She lifted her face, eyes back on her father, “Father?...” 

“It’s a list of witnesses, all testifying that the the crown prince looked like a healthy human baby.”

Silas paused his reading, his gaze stuck on a name.

He raised his head and caught his father’s gaze, “You got the midwife to sign?”

Lord Pankratz inclined his head, jerking it back before he started to nod off, “Indeed, made her sign. All ten fingers and toes. No strange moles, markings, or extra appendages on the babes, she testified.”

“And you think this will work?” Meidri asked, holding the papers in her hands as an example.

Lord Pankratz shrugged and snorted, “often, no amount of evidence in the world is enough, not when it goes against what a king wants.”

He shifted, placing his elbows on the table. His arms trembled as they held the upper half of his body weight. Meidri noted his unkept hair, tired eyes. The way he seemed to track invisible people out of the corners of his eyes. Her father looked deranged.

“You want to know a secret?” The lord’s lips stretched wide across his face, a facsimile of a smile that lacked all joy. 

“Justice is a lie,” his tongue caressed the last word, turning his tone sluggish, and he let out a wheeze that Meidri eventually deciphered to be a weak laugh. 

“Take this from someone who’s sent far too many people to be executed, for charges held together by flimsy evidence at best.”

Their father shrugged again, thinking of trials past, “peasants, merchants, whores, they’re all the same. It didn’t matter to the council if they were guilty or not.”

A wicked yet shaky grin overtook the lord’s face, “a good amount of coin here, a threat there… their innocence doesn’t matter, if those with power want them gone…”

Their father’s head swayed as if it was too heavy for his neck, the wine glass now empty, “But embrace your good fortune!” he mocked, hands gesturing sarcastically to the room around them as though it were filled with treasure instead of dark corners, “for the king loves his children for now, even if they do turn out to be monsters!”

Tired from his brief levity, the lord slumped in on himself, his face growing solemn.

“And who is more powerful than a king to protect your niece and nephew?”

With that said, Meidri watched as the father stood shakily, his steps as unsteady as a newborn foal’s. He made way towards his bed chamber, grumbling at mumbling every time he bumped into furniture due to his clumsy gait.

He went through the door, not seeming to care about the mess he left on the floor from the shattered wine bottle.

Meidri and Silas were left behind, to stare at the shattered glass on the floor. 

“This is never going to end, is it?” Silas said, his voice breaking the silence. 

Meidri stood, before kneeling before the shattered glass. 

“This, it’s never going to end,” Silas shuffled behind her, “And the worst thing is, we’ll be paying the consequences for father’s ambition long after he’s gone.”

His footsteps grew closer until he too knelt beside her. 

Meidri watched his long fingers gather sharp glass shards, adept enough to avoid being cut. 

“It was our father’s ambition that turned us from farmers to nobility in one generation, I don’t remember you complaining then,” Meidri bit out.

Meidri snapped her mouth shut. The words had come out of nowhere, slipped loose from a pocket deep within her. One she hadn’t even known existed. However, she could not deny the pinprick of annoyance at what her brother had said. She mentally slapped herself, because Silas was right. Her fingers trembled over her own pile of glass. 

Her sister was dead, their nephew and niece were in danger. Perhaps if satisfaction were more to father’s liking, their sister would still be alive. 

“Because I didn’t know the price we would pay,” He rose beside her, glass shards cupped between two palms.

“I didn’t know that we would be cleaning up after him for the rest of our lives,” he said, pointedly dropping the shattered glass shards into the waste basket. 

Meidri sighed. Her shoulders weighed on her, as though she were balancing a mountain atop them. She gathered her own shattered glass, and made her way towards the waste basket. she opened her hands, watching as the broken little shards fell, the candlelight reflecting rainbows on their surface.

A loud snore echoed from the depths of their father’s chambers.

Meidri’s face fell, crossing her arms in front of her. She felt tired, so tired, as though she’d run from one end of the kingdom to the next. He was right, of course. It was so much easier to reach for and claw for the top, than staying there. They knew their lives would be different once Kasia became engaged. It was impossible for change not to happen. Their sister became queen, and their family rose in standing once again. 

And still, her family kept changing. It grew smaller. 

A loss that left a mark on each of them.

She glanced at the broken shards in the waste basket again. 

No matter how much father tries to hide it.

“It doesn’t excuse him,” she muttered, eye downcast, “but I don’t think he knew the price he’d be paying either.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted to see any more changes yet to come. 

She wasn’t sure they’d survive them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes yes, I know, no toddler Julian or Renfri, I promise we’re getting there in the next chapter. There’s a lot of players in this game right now, and they all have very important parts to play. 
> 
> Also in the next chapter, we get insight into Lady Aridea...
> 
> Feel free to discuss in the comments section whether you think the lord’s plan will work...


	5. Fly Little Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this start out with Renfri’s and Julian’s parents, but as thanks to everyone who’s stuck with me till now.... there’s quite a bit of Jaskier in the second half....
> 
> I haven’t abandoned this fic, but life’s been hard, and it stole my passion for a while. But I’m back now, so yay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy.

Fredefalk sat in the main room of his chambers. He was the very image of relaxation, taking full advantage of a plump red velvet armchair. Yet, his heart thrummed with a haptic energy, and his shoulders were held in a stiff and unrelenting line. 

Fredefalk turned towards the door on his left, waiting, wanting, only to be disappointed when only soft gurgling sounds accompanied his query. He kept his ears trained on the light gurgling and quiet murmurings of that other room, focused on even the slightest change of noise from the nursemaids.

He sighed, moving his hands towards his knees, squeezing tightly.

His only light lay on the other side of that door, and to be separated from them for such an extended period of time was frightening. 

He took a deep breath, struggling to reign in the panic that paralyzed him anytime he was apart from his children. The fear that overtook him every time he was was separated from Kasia’s greatest gift to him. 

The moment he saw them, he knew they were perfect. They were small and wrinkly, eyes squeezed shut. They resembled sun dried prunes more than they did the conventional child. Despite everything, despite being covered in their mother’s blood, he knew the moment they were placed in Kasia’s arms that they were perfect. The blooming warmth he’d reserved for Kasia, the gentle fire that he’d thought would never be eclipsed, had scorched a trail through his weary heart, burning away until his chest felt double the size. Just as he’d thought he could hold no more love after Kasia, that gentle fire burned another chamber within him. As he’d watched their scrunched up, indignant and angry faces, and heard their screeching ear splitting cries, he was helpless as they ruthlessly claimed that new space in his heart.

And thus, despite the gore, the noise, the mess, the moment he laid eyes on them, they were perfect.

How could they not be? He thought. 

They were of Kasia, and so they must be perfect. Any other possibility was unfathomable. 

A little girl, he could already tell, that was as gentle and kind as her mother. When he held her for the first time she was so quiet, so much quieter than her brother who wailed for a long time after his birth. She had large inquisitive eyes, and though they were newborn blue, they were a slightly darker color in comparison hinted at them darkening into a brown. He’d briefly mourned that his daughter might not inherit her mother’s eyes, before throwing that thought aside as he became in awe of his child. She was so quiet, that he’d handed her to the midwife, worried there was something wrong with her. Her only response was a raised eyebrow as the midwife proclaimed his daughter healthy as a horse. 

He drummed his fingers against arm rest on his chair, grinning as he remembered his son’s wails.

He had a set of lungs on him, that he did. He felt a smug grin stretch across his face.

Oh the rival kingdoms could say what they liked… that he was cursed… that he’d led to his mother’s death.

But he was his boy, his heir.

And they would never be able to deny that he was strong, so strong.

He’d cried long after leaving his mother’s belly, and no effort from the wet nurses nor the midwife served to pacify him. Only when his mother held him for the first and last time, did his wailing end, only to be replaced by gurgling and cooing while his chubby fingers made quick work at tugging lightly on Kasia’s loosened braids. In contrast to his sister, he seemed enchanted by the world around him, his clumsy gaze aimed at invisible figures in the air, before coming to rest on his mother’s face before becoming distracted yet again. His focus refused to settle, and he amused his father endlessly as his son’s expressions changed with every new thing the world had to offer him. It was all the more apparent in comparison to his sister’s seemingly single minded attention on her parents. 

The door on his left creaked open, dragging him out of his thoughts as his eyes immediately followed the sound before standing up. 

“They fed well, yes?” His hands were itching to hold his babies again.

Lessandra and Gertra, his children’s nursemaids, curtseyed as correctly as possible with a baby in their arms.

“Yes your grace,” Lessandra smiled, her dimpled face shifting with genuine joy,“They fed very well, both of them.”

“Good, good,” he stuttered. He took a hesitant step towards them only to hear a dissonant crack as he stepped on one of his quills thrown haphazardly on the floor. He looked down in time to see a sea of black emerge from underneath his boot, as the ink from the quill emptied.

Another boot, ruined. Azern would not be pleased.

He watched the ink creep to scattered paper across the floor. The man he was a month ago would have rushed to save those papers from certain doom, yet all he could summon now in response to the mess on the floor was an exhausted sigh. Food lay strewn across his table, along with unorganized piles of paper. Official documents were scattered throughout the bed, and the counts for all the taxes from all 101 townships in his region lay undone. It was behavior unfit for a king, yet he found it was the best he could do at the moment. He had greatly under estimated the amount of care twin newborns would need. Cloth changes, regular naps, the crying, oh melitle, the crying. He loved his son, he truly did. Yet more than once, as he’d held a baby that could be mistaken for a banshee, he’d desperately thought that he would give away his kingdom for an hour of silence. A complete opposite to his daughter, his son did not take well to being left alone. He did not take well to sleeping alone in his crib, crying ceaselessly unless rocked to sleep by another person. After a week of life, the father in him came to understand that Julian hated to be left alone, hated the silence that came with a person’s absence. It was a quirk that was both endearing, and endlessly frustrating to their very busy father. 

Yes, after a week of life, taking care of his children was by far, the hardest task he’d ever undertaken. Yet, the thought of giving his babies to nannies throughout the day, deeply unsettled him. And so despite the many protests from his councilors, he was determined to care for them himself alone. He cleaned them on his own, he rocked them to sleep on his own, and he held them, on his own. The only thing he could not do alone was feed them, and so grudgingly, he’d allowed two nursemaids near his children while supervised by him, of course. 

Strangers could not be trusted, he thought. 

Definitely not, not with something as precious as his son and daughter.

And if the constant labor helped push away certain thoughts, well then, that was just a coincidence.

His dedication to his children however, came at a price. His rooms lay in various states of disarray and chaos, but at the moment he did not care if the nursemaids saw his disorganization, he was only a father that desperately wanted his children back in his arms.

“They’ve been changed and bathed as well, your grace,” Gertra said, her eyes glued on the floor, nervous to meet the king’s eyes. 

“Perfect,” he breathed.

Lessandra glanced at Gertra, before gently rocking the crown prince in her arms, “is there any place you wish us to leave them your grace? Their cribs? Do you wish to hold them?”

Fredefalk shifted his gaze between his son and his daughter. He wished to hold them both, but he still considered to himself too inexperienced to be completely sure in holding them both and not drop one by mistake. He eyed his gruff and clumsy hands, hands that he considered far too large and unwieldy to be trusted with one, let alone two precious bundles. 

Kasia would never forgive a risk to her babies’ safety.

He wrung his hands before holding them out to Lessandra, “Let me hold my son first.”

Lessandra curtseyed again, “Of course your grace.”

Fredefalk reached for his son, careful to place a hand on the back of his head and neck, before reaching for the rest of his tiny body. Even after touching him hundreds of times, he marveled at how soft and petite he felt underneath his hands. He was small, about the size of wine bottle. His size had worried him so until the midwife assured him that he was simply a little early, and would grow to a normal newborn’s size with regular feedings. He was also taught by the midwife that newborns would be unable to handle quick jerky movements, and that their heads and necks were especially delicate. She’d explained that it had something to do with their undeveloped muscles, making them unable to adjust to abrupt motion. He could certainly believe it, having held his son’s floppy squishy body before. Both his children were completely dependent on him, even with movement. Their small undeveloped limbs could not support their young bodies, and so he had to make sure that cruel gravity would not jostle them too much. It was a duty and responsibility that terrified him. Any harsh movement could hurt them, and the thought of him caring for something so small and precious was daunting. His fears pushed him to nag the midwife to teach him the proper way to hold newborns for the fifth time, all the while terrified at the prospect of him ever accidentally hurting his children.

“Oh hello,” he whispered gently, as he brought his son close to his chest. His son wriggled in his grasp, blinking sleepy blue eyes before settling against his father’s chest.

Gertra shuffled her feet, “Where do you wish me to put your daughter your grace?”

Fredefalk looked up, his eyes softening as he beheld the cream bundle that was his Renfri.

“Place her in her crib for now.”

Gertra curtseyed, and walked to the oak carved crib, gently laying the slumbering princess on soft blankets. 

“Now leave us,” the king said, his eyes never leaving his son’s downy locks.

Lessandra and Gertra glanced at each other, before curtsying again, and hastily making their way towards the door. The soft steps eventually faded, until the only reminder of their presence was the soft locking of the door behind them.

Fredefalk rubbed his thumb over a plump cheek, grinning when his son’s eyes grumpily opened from the minor annoyance.

“Oh I’m sorry little one,” he hushed, stroking a finger over the bridge of his son’s button nose, “I just can’t help myself, please bare with your overbearing papa.”

Curious eyes tracked his finger, following it over and over, until those eyes were half lidded. 

“Did you have a nice dinner?” The king grinned, stroking a hand against his son’s hair as he continued mock seriously, “I assume all business is in order?” 

Of course, Julian’s only reply was a slow blink.

“I’m glad,” Fredefalk said, rocking him slightly, “Only the best for my little prince.”

He hummed a soft lullaby, hummed by his own mother so long ago, he’d forgotten all the words to it. Yet the haunting melody still remained. 

He smiled as he imagined all he would share when his son was grown. Horseback riding, sword fighting.

Oh the novels he would share with him. 

He closed his eyes as he basked in his made future. 

And in his heart of hearts he promised it would become a reality.

Fredefalk walked over to Renfri’s crib, placed near his bed. He calmed at the sight of her calm breathing. She was not as prone to tantrums as Julian, but she was harder to calm after one. Making sure to sit before doing anything else, he took her into his arms as well, clumsily taking hold of both his children. He would only ever hold both of his children while on top of his bed, slightly calmed at the thought that any fall would be cushioned by the mattress. Finally both lay sheltered in his arms, all quiet breaths and sleepy faces. 

He slowly sat on the edge of his bed, letting his weight dip the mattress.

Kasia would never see this. The thought came unbidden in his head.

She would never hold them.

She would never kiss them.

She would never.

Come back.

For them.

Or for him.

He tightened his hold over his children, a quiet moan coming from his lips. He muffled it, barely, lest he wake his children.

He rocked both his babies, more for his comfort than theirs. His face scrunched up as tears dribbled onto the front of his chemise.

He kept silent, unwilling to disturb their much needed rest.

Their comfort his utmost importance, even as his shoulders trembled with repressed grief.

His cries were silent, his lips were roughly bitten to ensure their compliance.

Yet he could not stop the desperate rocking that overtook his frame. He held his babies close as the Kasia sized hole in his chest throbbed and threatened to take him whole. The thorny vines wrapped around the wound in his heart squeezed harder than they ever had before, his chest jumping from the quiet gasping heaves his body forced him to take.

Because they were his whole life now, and yet he could not lie to himself. As wonderful and and much love as he had for the twins, they would never replace his wife. Never completely fill the hole inside. Oh they could be a balm, a temporary relief, but like a clumsy child who lost a piece of his favorite puzzle, the tear in his soul was unsuited to be filled by the twins. Just as a puzzle piece shoved in the wrong area would warp the ending portrait, forever.

And he wept for it.

All the while his babes slumbered. 

They napped as tiny droplets peppered their serene faces.

He wiped them off, all the while still sobbing uncontrollably. 

Kasia would hate tears on their faces. Sadness did not belong in his children, not even his.

Fredefalk took in the bundles in his arms, the subtle curl in their hair, the length of their lashes, the light in their eyes.

There would not be a moment, that his children did not inspire both great joy and great sadness. 

For every time he looked at them, he saw her.

Kasia was written in their every sentence, in the admittedly short story of their lives. She was ingrained in Julian’s joy, so like his mother. She was etched in Renfri’s calm focus, which so often Kasia used to root him to the ground. 

He would never be able to look at them, without thinking of their mother.

He shut his eyes tightly, pressing a trembling kiss upon his son’s brow.

“How little you know my children,” he whispered, his lips brushing over his slumbering son’s forehead while gently letting his daughter grip a solitary finger in her sleep, as he talked, “how little you know, for how much you are already loved.”

Commotion and shouting from outside his door pulled him out of his thoughts. 

He frowned, moving to place his children back in their cribs.

He’d explicitly ordered his guards to keep anyone from visiting him. All the lords and nobles in the privy council knew he was not to be visited, not even for urgent matters.

However, the clamor outside his door only grew, till the door burst open, the force from outside pushing it till it smacked against the wall with a loud bang. 

He winced.

Please please stay asleep, he begged to the heavens. He twisted around, hoping and praying….

Only to be met by sniffles and whimpers that descended into outright angry outraged wails.

Their cries echoed through his room, a sharp contrast to the blissful silence that was present only seconds ago. 

“Please!” A woman’s voice joined the wailing, “I absolutely must speak to the king.”

He whirled around, furious. 

A burning fire made itself known high on his cheeks, as he was well aware there were still tear tracks present on his face. 

Yet even his embarrassment could not compete with the complete all encompassing rage thrumming through his veins.

His head throbbed at the thought of calming them down again, and putting them to sleep.. again.

Whoever ruined his moment of solitude would face his wrath.

“Get over here!” he snarled. If they wanted to talk to the king, then they would talk to the king. 

The guards attempting to restrain the intruder in his rooms froze at his words, worried expressions on their faces. 

“Your majesty!” One of them stammered, “We were only-“ 

“I assign a simple order,” he says, gripping the unruly strands of hair that stuck to his forehead from panicked sweat at the thought of having to put his unruly newborns to sleep again. 

“Silence, and solitude,” he says, his voice drowned out by the screaming and screeching behind him.

“And not even that, you can follow!,” he shrieks, both out of frustration and necessity, trying to be heard over the angry cries of his children. 

In their distraction, the intruder manages to slip away from his stupefied guards, pushing them aside until Meidri stands in front of them.

He’s surprised to see his sister in law for a second, before fury overtakes him yet again. 

Yet it’s is not as outrageously hot as before, tempered by similar blue eyes.

“Get out,” he spits, and his children cry harder, as though sensing their father’s anger, “And be glad that even in death I respect your sister enough to pardon you for your blatant disrespect.”

The guards winced as Julian released a particularly high screech. One of the guards, Ventri, the king thinks, gripped at Meidri’s shoulder, and tried to pull her back.

“You heard the king,” he said gruffly, “Out with you!”

Almost as soon as the guard grabs her shoulder, Meidri slaps the intrusive hand away, shocking the guard once more. 

“I will not leave,” she said, indignant. 

Fredefalk feels a vein pulse on his forehead. She has no right to be this difficult. 

“Everyone in the castle was ordered to keep away, you are not welcome.”

“You left me no recourse!” Meidri gasps, struggling as his guards try to pull her back out into the hallway, “You would not respond to my letters! You are not accepting audiences with anyone! I needed to speak with you!”

“My words are law!” He screams, still trying to be heard above his children’s yowls. “You are not above them Meidri.”

“Then your law is cruel!” Meidri gripped the doorway, her fingers white and bloodless as she fought against being dragged out by the guards. 

His guards gave a sharp tug, almost managing to dislodge her until she dug her heels against the floor.

“In Melittle’s name!” He shouts, gripping his hair tightly, “perhaps I should replace you all with the ladies of the court, if you can’t manage to overpower a simple woman!”

“My apologies my king,” Ventri stammered as he gave another harsh tug, “we will send her to the dungeons immediately, that will teach her to not disobey a king’s command.”

“Is it now a crime to seek out one’s family?!” Meidri demanded, her struggles growing desperate as she lost purchase on the doorway.

“It is when it goes against what I explicitly order!”

Finally, Ventri jerked her from her death grip, pulling her away while helped by the rest of the guards.

“Off to the dungeons with you, a night ought to mellow you out,” Ventri grunts, only to have his head smacked to the side by Meidri’s elbow. “

By the gods,” he shouts, finally angered and embarrassed at struggling so much to restrain one woman “quit struggling!”

“NO!” She shrieked, but it was in vain. She was being dragged away.

Fredefalk turned away, attempting to calm himself. It would do no good to pacify his children while angry. 

“She may have been your wife, but she was my sister!”

He gritted his teeth, “Let her stew in the dungeons for two nights,” he bellowed out, turning back to his sister in law again, his temper overflowing at the mention of his wife’s name. 

Her clothes were rumpled and lightly torn due to the struggle. Her cheeks were red, and her breaths were loud and gasping from both anger and exhaustion. There was a furious dip between her eyebrows, a she struggled against the guards. Despite his frustration, in the recesses of his mind he could not help but commend her, at least for her sheer stubbornness and perseverance. 

“Let-… me-,” she pulled against their grip, her jaw clenched, “-go!”

One of the guards gave a violent tug, finally overpowering her and throwing her to the floor. 

He heard the breath leave her lungs after she slammed to the floor, and his guards stood frozen. Despite their orders, it was not their desire to harm stubborn ladies. It was not his desire either, and the audible smack shocked some of the anger out of him. This kind of situation was unheard of, and they were hesitant to continue.

She gasped, drawing a desperate breath, but to his surprise, she did not cry.

His guards made no more attempts to restrain her, and he gave no more orders.

In the background, his children wailed. 

She sat up, and slowly stood up. Now that there were no hands reaching for her she was able to straighten out the wrinkles on her skirt. 

She looked even angrier, as she smacked some dust off her front. Her glare deepened. She did not seem shaken from her fall, if anything, she seemed enraged. 

“Kasia would have never wanted them kept away from me,” she hissed, pulling her hair back into an orderly bun, “from the rest of their family.”

Fredefalk froze.

But Meidri sharpened the stake, and aimed for his heart.

“She would be so disappointed in you.”

One guard hesitantly reached out towards her, shocked at the brazen way she spoke to the king.

“Come now my lady-“

Kasia slapped his hand away, “don’t touch me,” she snapped, whirling till she was in his face, daring him to touch her again.

“There’s no need.”

As the guard stood frozen, she turned away, and flattened her wrinkled skirts, her back straight and her nose in the air, before leveling him with a glare.

“I can leave on my own,” she declared imperiously.

His anger forgotten, Fredefalk felt time slow around him, a second becoming an eternity.

A century for all for the elegant curves of Meidri’s hands, the way she adjusted the brooch holding her hair in place. 

A motion he’d seen a thousand times, but from another woman.

It was the same brooch Kasia used to wear. 

And he was deeply unsettled as his heart gave a sharp tug at the familiar motion. 

The soon approaching solitude was no longer comforting. 

Meidri was not Kasia, she could not be more different.

Where Kasia was soft and bright, easy smiles and gentle eyes, Meidri was sharp and elegant, a determination and will around her not present in his wife. They could not be mistaken for each other.

But in his desperation, his mind grasped at any similarities. For there were similarities, as distinct as the two sisters were.

There was a resemblance, a closeness that went deeper than physical appearance. It was in the hidden sadness in her eyes, the twisted angry shape of her lips that could just as easily, in his mind’s eye, become a painfully beautiful smile.

It was in the glare on her face. It was so similar, so close, that he almost felt judged by his beloved from beyond the grave. 

It was in the her lack of fear.

For the first time since his wife’s death, some of the gaping hole in his chest was soothed. Some part of her, however different and small, was still there, in front of him. 

And he found he could not part with this facsimile of his wife. He could not bare the thought.

“Leave her,” he said, hardly believing the words from his mouth. 

Meidri, despite the rough handling, appeared unruffled and poised. It was a stunning contrast to the surprise on the guard’s faces. 

“Leave her,” he repeated tiredly, his head aching as his children were still crying. 

“All this effort,” he sighed, “it must be urgent.”

“Leave us.”

The guards stood with gaping mouths, before Ventri took charge.

“You heard his majesty! Out, out the lot of you.”

Soon, the door shut with a bang, leaving him with Meidri and two wailing children. 

She held her head high, never lowering her eyes, level with him.

And this was different to Kasia too, he noted.

This pride.

He turned away first, his anger gone and replaced by the burning desire to soothe his children. Lady Meidri had free reign now, if she wanted to speak to him, she could just as easily mutter words to his back as though to his front. Julian was red in the face, his cries turning raspy from strain, and his stomach twisted with worry. Renfri was quiet, seemingly exhausted from her tantrum, yet angry little hiccups escaped her every so often, her tiny mouth twisted as another whine burbled out of her.

He placed a hand on both their cribs, rocking them gently, shushing them desperately to get them to settle down.

His heart clenched in his chest, for Julian was still screaming, at such a high volume that he worried his little lungs would burst. 

“Please please,” he pleaded, rocking them “settle down my little loves.”

He heard the jostling of skirts behind him, and startled slightly. 

That was right, Meidri was still in his rooms.

And before he could protest, Meidri reached into Julian’s crib, pulling out the squalling baby and cradling him against her chest. 

A shout died in his throat, as Julian’s bellowing wails creased, crabby but curious eyes surveying this gentle stranger.

Seeming to take direction from her bother, Renfri also calmed, her hiccups finally silenced.

And he could only stand in shock as blessed silence permeated the room.

“No more tears little prince,” she hushed, “It is quite rude to disturb your king so,” a wry grin over took her face, “take it from me, he does not appreciate it.” 

She hushed Julian again, “Quiet little one, for your father must be very tired.”

She focused on the child in her arms, rocking Julian slightly, before looking at him.

“This is the only thing I will apologize for,” she admitted grudgingly, “I did not mean to wake them, or disturb their sleep, that was not my intention.”

She focused on her nephew again. He watched as the strong line of her shoulders softened, and the steel in her eyes waver and become tender while gazing down at his son.

And he could not begrudge her. He could not be cross at anyone while they looked at his son that way.

“I seek no apology,” he admitted in the stillness of the room, he reached for Renfri, meticulously placing his hand on the correct areas of her neck and head, before pressing her to his chest.

Truly he did not. Any complaint faded away as she continued calming his children.

“Good,” Meidri sniffed, one brow raised, “I suppose I should not expect any apologies from you.”

He frowned, surprised.

“You disobeyed a direct order from me,” he continued incredulously, “what did you expect? Family is not above order.”

“Were it not for you relation to your sister and my children, I would have sent you a week to the dungeons.”

The ice in her eyes cooled further, in contrast to the warm secure hold she maintained for her nephew.

“You kept my niece and nephew away from the rest of their family,” she whispered furiously, struggling to stay quiet so as to not disturb the calmed infant.

“What did you expect?” She finished sarcastically, shrugging her shoulders.

Some of the ire from earlier returned.

“I was trying to keep them safe!” He whispered back furiously, unable to speak any louder for fear of provoking another tantrum.

“Enough with your excuses, you were being selfish!” Her eyes flashed dangerously.

“I am the king!” He said, his temper reigniting. He was unused to being challenged, accustomed to every order being obeyed. And yet there was truly no way to force compliance from Meidri, he knew he could not bring himself to threaten her despite his dislike for her. He was fairly sure she knew that too.

It was infuriating.

“And a king is not above reproach, especially when it comes to my family.” 

In comparison to Fredefalk, Meidri spoke calmly, resolute in her belief. 

Her confidence was almost as baffling as it was frustrating. 

He grunted, disagreeing and unwilling to continue this conversation.

Meidri scoffed, glaring in his direction before returning her attention to her nephew. 

And her obvious disappointment in him grated at his already frayed nerves. There should be no reason for him to be bothered by her opinion, but bother him it did.

The stern hold on her face relaxed as she studied the drowsy features of his son. She studied the faint blush on his cheeks, before lifting a finger to gently stroke down his son’s button nose.

He hesitated, seeking to bridge the gap between them. She was his children’s aunt after all. 

“They are so similar to her,” he whispered, “are they not?”

She looked at him, before rolling her eyes and scoffing again.

“You’re right,” she said brusquely, “They look almost nothing like you, thank Melitle for small blessings, your majesty.”

Fredefalk bristled, annoyed and peeved and being rebuked for attempting to reach out.

“You never liked me,” he admitted, his patience snapping, finally done with pretenses, “you were very obvious, and that I accepted long ago.”

Meidri scowled, her face sour, as though she’s taken a bite from a lemon, “I have always shown you the respect merited by your station, your majesty.” 

“Oh you were courteous enough,“ he chuckled joylessly, “respectful, diplomatic, while exuding no real warmth.” 

He scowled, “It is your specialty.”

She remained silent.

“I grew to accept that,” he shifted his weight, trying to ease the stiffness in his joints, “And I will admit I did not care for your opinion. I truly could not have cared less for your thoughts, and perhaps that further increased your ire of me.”

“Do not sell yourself short your majesty,” she replied, face and voice emotionless. Yet he was not fooled. No, the forced passivity in her countenance was hard fought. The way she held herself, the irritated flush on her cheeks; she was furious.

“I know you strive to treat all your subjects equally, you’ve never cared for anyone’s opinions.”

She met his gaze, a ugly sneer gracing her lips, “that is your specialty, your grace.”

He reared back, as though physically struck. 

“There it is again,” he snarled, “you hate that I married your sister, you can’t fool me, yet you should take comfort in our shared blood madam,”.

He towered over her, threatening even with a baby in his arms, “you should not be so quick to condemn our relation,” he hissed, “it is your only saving grace for your impertinence.”

“You should thank the gods every day you are Kasia’s sister.”

Meidri’s calm façade cracked like a chicken’s egg, anger exploding out of her, “You truly want to know why I never cared for you, your majesty?”

“Please!” He shrugged mockingly, as much as he could with his daughter in his arms, “Speak plainly for once!”

She’s hurriedly walked to Julian’s crib, laying the sleeping child deep within the confines of his blankets before turning back to him with clenched fists. 

“Are you sure you want to know? Because I don’t fancy the answer to your question resulting in a night in the dungeons your majesty.”

“Oh believe me my lady,” he hissed, desperately wishing his hands were free to strangle the delicate arch of her neck, “If angering me were enough to send you to the dungeons, you would already be there.”

Meidri made a face, “I very nearly was there, because of your ire.”

“And yet here we are.”

And it was as if those words were the cool fresh water poured over a raging fire.

And the room calmed.

Meidri studied his face, eyes roving over his features. Fredefalk’s felt distinctly uncomfortable, as though he were some insect under inspection from a magnifying. She had an intensity about her, a singleminded focus that was overtly palpable, and yet gave nothing else away. 

He looked into her eyes and saw nothing.

She took a step closer to him, extending an arm, and while maintaining eye contact, she ever so slightly and gently brushed a solitary finger against his daughter’s cheek. He fought the urge to pull his daughter closer, and succeeded, yet an involuntary flinch escaped him. 

Meidri huffed out a small laugh at seeing his reaction, and studied the babe in his arms.

“You care for them, I can tell.”

She looked up, her ocean eyes meeting his.

“You feel an overwhelming tie to them,” she continued, her finger still stroking his daughter’s cheek.

“And when they are out of your sight, you feel empty and lost, and afraid.”

He wanted to tell her she was wrong, he wanted to tell her a king feared nothing. But the words froze upon parted lips, quelled by a fog inside his mind.

Fredefalk could see the candlelight reflected in her eyes, flickering between blue and yellow. 

Meidri hand clasped the back of Renfri’s head, coincidentally touching Fredefalk’s hand as well. 

“That bond,” she continued, “that need and desire and tie that you feel.”

“Is your love for them,”

Medri’s hand was warm against the back of his, a warm spark briefly grazing his knuckle when her thumb lazily dragged against his flesh. And for a man who’d had partaken in no physical contact other than holding his children, the touch was almost overwhelming.

“for your family.”

She was close to him now, very close. 

Close enough to see the glint of white teeth between parted lips as she said, “I understand this love very well, this love for family.”

She was close enough that he could smell her, a warm vanilla that settled heavy on his tongue.

She continued, quieter, almost whispering, “I have known it myself, while I don’t have any children of my own.”

His breath hitched, a hot poker burning the flesh of his knuckles where Meidri’s thumb rested.

“The love for my mother and father.”

She had freckles, he realized. Light freckles dusting over the bridge of her prettily arched nose.

“The love for my brother.”

Her eyelashes were so long, they brushed the top of her cheeks every time she blinked

“And the love for my sister.”

His lips parted, to taste the scent of her, draw it in.

“My sister, who was lost the moment you laid eyes on her.”

And like like lightening she whipped her hand back, her upper lip curling in disgust.

He reeled at the abrupt motion, taking an unsteady step back. 

He felt as though the sun’s light had cruelly been taken away from him. And with its glow gone, he was left barren.

He drew a deep breath, hoping to clear his head, for he felt as though her were in a trance, intoxicated, addicted, to the scent of vanilla.

He shook his head, and forced himself to remember what Meidri said.

“You blame me for her death?” He asked incredulously.

“I blame you for separating us,” she hissed.

“All those ladies,” she continued, gesturing at imaginary women while pacing the floor around him, “presented to you as possible brides.”

She paused, “You got to take your pick, but did you ever consider whether you were their choice as well?”

His heart thudded angrily, and he felt blood rush into his face. 

“She loved me, she loved me with everything she had, and I loved her!”

“Because she was forced to!”

Fredefalk lay Renfri in her crib, afraid that their discussion would become too heated and thus disturb his daughter.

“I made her a queen!” He bared his teeth, “she had riches, she had prestige, everything she wanted all she had to do was ask and I would provide!”

“Yes you’re right,” she screamed, tears sprouting at the corners of her eyes, “you took her and made her queen!”

“But you took her, nevertheless!”

“I married her!”

“You never cared for what she wanted! You saw something you liked and you took her without ever knowing if she even wanted to be married to you! She wanted to to stay at the farm, with us!”

He took threatening steps toward her, “You know nothing,” he growled.

Meidri took a step back.

“You want to know what she thought?”

“She hated court,” Meidri grimaced, “ladies gossiping about her, day and night, saying lewd and hurtful things about her.”

His steps stuttered to a stop. 

“Laughter and cheers, all made against her name as other jealous families made a mockery of her for not having children earlier.”

“They idly wondered and joked, as to whether she was barren,” Meidri continued, “and they made sure their cruel words reached the right ears.”

“She was lonely,” Meidri whispered, her voice gentle now that she was sure he was listening, “surrounded by strangers, including her husband, and forced to learn traditions that were not her own.”

“and I,” Meidri shuddered, “Should have fought harder to visit her, in retrospect.”

The king shook his head slowly, a deep crevice between his eyes, “You act as though I condemned her, but I treasured her above all.”

Meidri laughed, which served to anger him more.

Laughter did not belong in this conversation.

“And still, you do not understand,” the mockery plain in Meidri’s voice, “or maybe you do, and you just don’t care.”

Fredefalk felt his hands clench, and his fingernails dig deep into his palms.

“I turned her from a farmer’s mare to a queen you ungrateful hag!”

Shock briefly graced Meidri’s delicate features, before her mouth twisted into a vicious snarl.

Her hand flashed faster than he could see, and less than a second later his cheek blossomed with pain, sharp and sudden after her palm slapped against his face.

So hard was her blow, that his head whipped to the side.

Across from him Meidri took in great shuddering gasps of air. The hand she used to slap him shook and trembled, still held aloft even after she dealt the blow as if ready to deliver another one. 

Her eyes were wide yet resolute, lower lip held stubbornly stiff. Her gaze met his steadily, despite his incredulous eyes as he wiped underneath his lip, only to find blood glistening on his fingers.

He eyed her incredulously again.

“Take me to the dungeons,” Meidri gasped, still breathing heavily. Either in anger, or fear, he didn’t know.

“I don’t care,” she continued, “but I won’t apologize, not for that.”

Fredefalk wiped under his nose again, still shocked by the sight of blood pooling over his fingers.

His blood was red.

As red as Kasia’s had been that night.

That night, when she—when she…

He felt his shoulders fall. 

That night when Kasia gave him his greatest treasure.

And here he was calling her a mare.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he whispered.

His thoughts flashed through his mind faster than he could comprehend. Flashes of pain, pain from the past. Had Kasia truly been that unhappy? Had he been blind all along?

“Perhaps I did doom her, perhaps I did isolate her.”

He shuddered, suddenly wishing Kasia would slap him again, harder, for the things he said.

For the things he’d said and done against his wife.

“But please believe me, it was never my intention.”

Across from him Kasia’s mouth gaped in surprise, before becoming a fortress yet again.

All his anger against her, all his pride, fled him, until he staggered towards one of his plush armchairs.

He sunk heavily into it, feeling like a marionette whose strings had just been cut. 

“Sit down,” he whispered, the silence in the room heavy enough that his quiet words travelled easily.

“You will not be going to the dungeons tonight.”

And then, feeling so exhausted, and so tired, he searched her eyes again despite his exhaustion.

She deserved his full attention, if not for respect owed to her, then as punishment for his own shameful words. 

“I was out of line, forgive me.”

He gestured to another of his chairs, “please sit.”

Meidri remained motionless for a second, as though waiting for him to change his mind, before clutching one hand with the other and hurriedly sitting in the chair opposite him.

She crossed her legs, her heels clicking together. Her back was ramrod straight, completely ignoring the backing of the chair. 

He took a deep breath. For a moment his deadened emotions threatened to emerge, his eyes watering slightly. He forced them down, lest Meidri be treated to a more pathetic visage than the one already in front of her. 

He breathed again, feeling slight more in control, and, “I cannot change the past.”

He swallowed, his eyes determinedly glued to the hand that slapped him seconds ago.

He could still feel the drying blood from his lip.

“If I could go back in time,” he whispered, “I would change everything.”

“I would have waited longer.”

“I would have asked her to be mine.”

The cracking of the fire was almost unbearably loud under the silent yet scrutinizing gaze of his sister in law. 

He placed his clenched first against his mouth, trying to hide the trembling of his lips.

“But you must believe me,” and his eyes implored her, begged her, “I loved her with all my heart, and what you say… again, was never my intention.”

“I love her still, so much, that her absence is a pain I don’t think will ever fully heal.”

Meidri’s eyes searched long and hard, but he no longer even had to energy to hide anything from her. Let her see what she wants to see, he thought. 

He spared a glance towards his children, resting still in their cribs. Had he been more rested, his brows would have risen in wonder at their continued slumber despite the noise from both of them.

Small wonders, he supposed.

“I believe you.” 

And those words dragged him back to the person in front of him.

“I believe you,” Meidri repeated.

And the solemnity in her gaze, convinced him she was telling the truth.

In part he was relieved.

He closed his eyes.

“Good,” he said, completely at loss for words. 

What does one say after a conversation like this?

“Good, that’s good I suppose,” he mumbled.

He knew if he kept his eyes closed, he would soon drift off into an uneasy slumber. Yet such an action would be unseemly, since he never heard the click clack of Meidri’s heels heading towards the door. 

“So, was the sole purpose of your visit to rile me up,” he said, cracking one eye open, “or did you have some other pleasant conversation in mind?”

Across from him Meidri’s hands clenched against the fabric of her dress, a rare sign of discomfort from her.

“You cannot change the past,” she said slowly, nodding her along with the words, as though trying to convince herself.

She looked up.

“But you can change the future.”

“Indeed I can, I suppose,” he mumbled tiredly.

“Then please! Let my family direct my niece and nephew’s education!”

And that woke him up. 

Both of his eyes flew wide open. 

“What?” He said.

“You keep them hidden from us,” Meidri said, her words rushed as she became more nervous, “you keep them hidden here for fear that your enemies would harm them.”

“Let us share that burden!” She pleaded, “let my family hold them, love them, teach them.”

“Protect them”

At his continued silence she bit her lip.

“Please let us teach them about their mother, for surely there are things we know about her, about our customs, that you do not.”

He studied her, curious as hope changed her posture and face. He found it suited her. This new demeanor.

It made her seem younger.

“You understand that such an important position is normally reserved for more than one sole noble family,” he said. 

And it was true, he could already imagine the tantrum Lord Eldor would have, at the thought of Lord Pankratz having sole control over the education of the future king of Creyden. 

However, the thought of ruining that raisin of a man’s day did more to please him than worry him. 

“Yes, but this is no ordinary case.”

“You don’t trust them,” she said, “ and in that I do not begrudge you.”

“Indeed, I don’t trust them,” he said, searching for a cloth on the table next to him.

And he truly didn’t. Were it not for centuries of tradition, he would have ripped Lord Eldor’s noble proof to shreds in front of him, and yet tradition demanded certain decorum.

“Then who better than us?” She continued, excitedly, as though she was a hairbreadth away from getting what she wanted.

And she was.

Normally education for a royal family member was handled by various noble houses, in the effort to avoid one noble family having complete influence. There was a certain wisdom to that tradition. It was also best for a future king to create allies with all noble houses, for security in the future. 

But she was right, these were hardly ordinary times.

One accident in the training yard, one misstep with the cooks, one bad day riding a horse.

And his children could be gone, forever.

And under the circumstances of their birth, it was not strange to think that such “accidents” could be done on purpose. 

Truly the only way to assure their safety, was to share them with someone who was equally motivated in keeping them alive. And who better than Lord Pankratz?

Meidri could declare familial love all she wanted. He believed her. He even slightly pitied her, because her father would use anything, and anyone, to amass more power. And he could see it in front of him. Meidri was nothing more than a pawn to him, ready to be sacrificed for his grandchildren.

Conveniently, such a desire for power and prestige, would assure his heirs a safer future. 

For without his grandchildren on the throne, Lord Pankratz’s ambitions for the future were lost.

And for all the advantages that Lord Pankratz would accumulate by overseeing their education, he was also sure that it was something Kasia would have wanted.

Meidri was right, it would have broken his wife’s heart to see her family so divided.

But if his sister in law wanted such an privileged position for her family, she would have to take an active role in it.

Plus, it would limit Lord Packratz’s power, for no one man should live life so comfortably, yet with so little inconvenience. 

How nice it must be for him, he wondered as he wiped drying blood from his lip, to send his daughter instead of himself in case the king’s ire grew too strong.

“Alright.”

Meidri blinked in surprise.

“But on one condition.”

Meidri’s expression soured.

“Yes?”

“Lord Pankratz may assign any tutors he so desires for subjects that are beyond your family’s capabilities. However, he himself may not be a teacher.”

“Your highness,” Meidri interrupted, a frown deep set on her face, “my family is well versed on the liberal arts and politics, there is no better teacher than my father.”

“Then surely he must have taught you?”

Meidri frowned again, “of course, it is not common but father was adamant in teaching me.”

Fredefalk smiled, “then surely there is no better teacher than you Meidri.”

Meidri gaped, he mouth opened and closed, yet she still didn’t seem able to find the correct words. 

“Of course, as the primary teacher to the prince and princess of Creyden, it does assign to you a weighty pension and allowance, so we shall have to work out the particulars of your new position in the future,” he looked outside towards the window, still heavy and black during the night, “when I am less weary and better at maths,” he grinned wryly.

“As per your previous request,” he said, calm after such a heated discussion, and eager to rest, “ your family shall have visitation rights to the twins. They shall be heavily guarded, and they may not be bothered during feeding times, but I suppose it would also be fine if you and your family were to occasionally watch over them.”

His expression darkened, “Provided that you prove yourselves adept at hiring competent and trustworthy guards and keep them around the children at all times. In addition, some of my own guards will always be present when you and your family decide to watch them. 

“Is that in accordance with you? Meidri?”

Meidri snapped her mouth shut, struggling to regain her composure.

“Yes,” she said, “except…”

Fredefalk felt one of his eyebrows rise on his forehead, what more could she want?

“Yes?”

“I would also like my brother to take part in teaching his niece and nephew. There are certain subjects in which he surpasses me, and I would not wish for my niece and nephew to be deprived of his instruction.”

He sighed, “done.”

Meidri nodded, finally relaxing onto the back of her chair. 

He supposed that her duty was finally done; she was finally allowing herself to calm.

And become distracted as well, as she fiddled with the front of her skirt.

Her fingers were pulling a stitch, further and further. 

She finally lifted her head, “I am weary, your highness.”

He snorted, “ ‘your highness’ , calling me your highness after slapping me in the face.”

He knew she was trying to courteously excuse herself, the conversation was over after all.

Yet, he found he didn’t want her to leave, not yet.

The mood in the room became awkward, which he thought was just ridiculous. If anything, embarrassment should have come before, not after, this entire argument.

And yet at those words, she giggled. 

And he could only stare, because such a sound coming from her was so strange. 

Yet that sound was all that was needed for both of their eyes to meet, and after a pause, break in raucous laughter.

It was loud, and slightly hysterical due to the absurdity of the situation, but at the moment he could not care if his laughter woke his children. He couldn’t, not when his belly was starting to ache from his merriment, merriment he hadn’t felt in so long a time. 

Perhaps it was the stress from that day, perhaps it was the memory of a lady fighting off a dozen knights and proceeding to wack a king in the face.

It would have make a hilarious tavern song, of that he was sure. 

“Well then,” she said pausing for a moment, smiling, “I suppose I shall have to call you Fredefalk instead now, now that the ice is quite literally broken.”

She smiled again, before catching herself.

All the traces of laughter, the upturned lips, the slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes, disappeared.

“Forgive me highness, I presume too much, it was a bad joke, nothing more.”

No no no, he thought. He wanted her to keep smiling. 

“No no, it’s fine. Fredefalk, I like the sound of that.”

——————————————————

Year 1239, Posada. 

His vision threatened to tunnel and distort. Yet he urged his heart on desperately.

Not yet, dear heart not yet.

He couldn’t let himself feel, or hurt, not yet.

Couldn’t let his heart thunder and pound. 

Not while he could still see that thing’s back, though it was retreating.

He still had to play the part of bumbling jolly bard, at least for a while longer.

He still had to let these miserable little peasants pelt him with bread.

Because if he did not, then it would hear, and then his chance would be gone.

He would not underestimate this creature. 

He would not make Renfri’s mistakes.

Finally, after years and years of tracking and searching, it was finally done.

He’d fought against hope when he heard that a white haired Witcher journeyed to Posada, couldn’t dare let himself imagine. For a seeming eternity, he’d dragged himself across the continent, barely sleeping, barely eating. Such was the life of one chasing after a superhuman monster. One that had little need to eat and rest. He could hardly let himself believe his torment was almost at an end. 

Yet he’d done it. He finally let his heart begin a frenzied pounding when he was sure the creature was decently far away. 

He felt his lips stretch, painfully on dry skin. He couldn’t tell whether it was a smile or a grimace. 

He was not happy, no. 

He hadn’t been happy in a long time. 

But he had been content once.

Only for that paltry peace to be snatched away. Or more accurately, to be slit and cut away, alongside his sister’s neck.

Now, he wasn’t sure what he felt.

Now all that fueled him was a burning inferno that travelled throughout all his being. Sometimes it centered in his chest, mingling with the raw wounds that wept daily. Sometimes it accumulated in his fists, till they were clenched and biting. Other times it centered behind his eyes, and it sometimes burned so fiercely that they wept for it. 

Only months after Renfri’s murder did he realize that the being inside him was rage. It was all encompassing rage, and it was the only thing that kept him warm at night after the numb shock of her absence faded away.

He licked his lips again, noting how uncomfortably dry they were. 

His mind raced, as he considered all the wonderful possibilities open to him. 

So many possible ways.

And yet so few that might work against a Witcher.

Julian was not stupid. He was well aware that this endeavor might cost him his life. But he didn’t care, he didn’t care at all. Fuck his life, fuck the world, fuck them all.

After all, his life ended the day his sister’s neck was sliced.

Fuck that monster.

His hands shook with desperation. He was so close. So fucking close, that his fingers trembled with it. Soon, his sister would finally be at peace. Soon she would have the justice that was demanded.

He unconsciously tracked the movements of the barmaid. She was of a pleasing sort, with curly golden locks, and ruby cheeks. In another life, he might have charmed her. In another life, he might have fallen in love with her, just as he did with so many others, and etch her into songs that would immortalize her forever. 

But not anymore.

He eyed a crotchety ghoulish man, who deviated between staring at him, and leering at the pretty inn keeper. He noticed the bulge in the mans pocket. A knife probably. 

He’d seen him earlier when he’d been attempting to charm that aberration of nature.

Harmless, but disgusting nonetheless.

He recognized that stare, as it remained locked on the pretty barmaid. 

He’d seen it enough times before.

He dragged his gaze away.

He briefly considered all his options.

Should he make him swallow his own sword?

His heart pulsed fiercely for a few beats, as he considered.

Finally he shook his head, his fingers still trembling against the table as he stared at the goings on of the tavern, without truly seeing.

No, that wouldn’t be sufficient. Not from experience.

It was quick, far too quick for what was deserved. 

Not nearly painful enough. No no no. It would be far too clean. 

His teeth clenched. Geralt of Rivia did not deserve to choke on his beloved sword.

Perhaps he should make him hold himself against a burning fire. 

That always did draw the sweetest wails. The looks of horror upon their faces, as they recognized the pain, yet could not make their bodies move. 

After brief consideration, he discarded that idea as well. It did not seem fitting. 

It seemed too lacking in imagination, too common. No, something special would be needed for Geralt of Rivia. 

And if there was one thing that Julian specialized in, it was imagination. 

And this wasn’t for some common murderer, after all. 

A small and shriveled part of him trembled at seeing himself this way. 

He was the useless son, the pansy boy that preferred singing and dancing in flower fields, to violence. 

But that boy was lost to him, he didn’t even recognize him. He was a lifetime away. That Julian would never listen to his tormentor’s screams, while sipping some cherry wine.

No, that little Julian didn’t have the stomach for such things.

Yet that part of him died a little more every day. 

He could now understand Renfri’s anger. Her fury.

He wondered how blind he’d been all along. For how long?

Now his only regret was not joining her when she endeavored to separate Stregebor’s head from his shoulders. 

And if he survived this. If he survived this meeting with Geralt of Rivia, then he would go after that shriveled cock hair as well. And oh, he would need his imagination for Stregebor as well. 

He knew that old man’s peculiarities. He liked pretty things that worshipped his feet, and unwillingly sucked at his prick. 

He wondered if he would appreciate the beauty of thorny roses, scratching and growing through his insides. Seeing in his mind’s eye all that ruby red blood, seeping from his mouth. Well, that was one way to shut him up. 

He wondered if that death would be pretty enough for him. 

But that was for another time.

No, he wouldn’t stop. Not until all those who wronged him lay underneath his feet. 

Preferably in pleasantly chopped up little pieces. 

And then, only then, would he rest.

A long void awaited him, should he succeed.

And didn’t intend to suffer through it.

He pushed the chair away as he stood up. His mind swimming with options.

He couldn’t let Geralt of Rivia get too far away from him.

And while he still played the part of defenseless human, he doubted the Witcher would pose any harm to him.

Perhaps studying him further would let him gleam brief insight as to the witcher’s greatest fears, for even monsters had terrors. 

And then he would act. And tear the Witcher’s world in two. 

He briefly composed himself, steadying his heart, and forcing joy to flow through his veins. Fake emotion journeyed though him, till not even a Witcher would be able to scent his true feelings. For, after all, there was no lie in his scent. According to his body, he was relaxed and happy. And that was the way it would stay, until it was time to pounce. 

He let a small grace his face, as he took graceful steps towards the exit. He briefly bowed to the pretty barmaid, letting prose fall from his tongue like water from a river, thanking her for the respite and commending her upon her beauty. She giggled, as red colored her cheeks. 

And he only continued, getting more and more into character, morphing from Julian, the man who lost everything, to Jaskier, the bard who loved everyone. 

And he loved this façade, clung to it with all he had left.

But sadly, that was all it was, a façade.

——————————————-

He was rounding the back of the tavern, trying desperately to track down one slippery eel of a Witcher, when he was shoved up against the rough wood. 

His breath left him in a huff.

His arms were pinned, and he felt a cold kiss against his neck. 

A knife, his brain helpfully supplied.

“I thought you mighta n’ver leave, bard.”

He was spun around swiftly, till he was face to face with the old haggard man from before. The man he’d caught staring at him and leering at the barmaid, whose name he’d never thought to ask.

He let his face stretch into a grin. After, he had a schedule to keep, and a messy end to this problem might result in a delay. Best to deal with diplomacy.

“Well hello my good sir! I didn’t know I was already so popular around these areas, but judging from your reaction, I must be well loved.”

Julian pouted, “although I’m so sorry, I cannot spare some time for my admirers at the moment.”

The man only smiled, revealing a toothless smile, and pressed the knife harder against his throat. A thin line of blood surged against the shallow cut. 

Julian gulped.

“Now now,” he chuckled nervously, his eyes swiveling around trying to formulate an escape, “surely my singing wasn’t that bad!”

“It’s not your singin’ I’m after.”

Julian struggled not to show the impatience on his face. Time was running out. “Well, I’ll choose not to take that as an insult.”

The man sneered, “the only insult here is how you were making pretty eyes at my sweet Luisa.”

Julian’s face blanched, “I’m sorry,” he said incredulously, “who?”

In a fit of rage the man gripped Julian’s front with one fist and slammed him against the wall, knocking his head against solid wood. Julian yelped. That did hurt! 

“You know who!” He spat, so forcefully that spittle flew from his lips to Julian’s face, “my sweet Luisa!”

Well and truly out of patience, And fairly sure he would have a headache soon after, Julian screamed back, “I don’t know who the bloody hell you’re talking about!”

That only earned him another smack against the wood.

“OWWW!”

He shrieked, his head ached, and the urge to claw the man’s eyes out grew stronger.

But he didn’t have time to spare, and he didn’t want to waste what little energy he had on this. 

“The barmaid!” He haggard man thundered, his face uncomfortably close to Julian’s.

“Wait wait wait,” Julian gestured with his hands as much as he was able to, making the universal sign for ‘PLEASE STOP’.

“You’re talking about the barmaid I said goodbye to?”

Man increased the pressure of the knife against his throat, and Julian inadvertently winced. 

“Luisa,” he growled.

“Well my good friend,” Julian offered his palms, “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding, there is nothing going on between me and your lovely wife.”

Julian was not quite sure how such a decrepit old man had ended up with such a beautiful young woman as his wife, but he’d learned not be surprised.

Perhaps it was an arranged marriage, but that only tended to happen in more prestigious families. 

It was quite the mystery.

“I don’t care wut you say,” he grinned, his grip on the knife tightening, “you’re not goin’ta come out of this alive bard.”

Julian’s annoyance surged. It seemed he would not be able to resolve this peacefully then.

“Oh good,” he said dryly, “a little excitement is always good for the heart.”

The old man frowned, the expression looking comical on his face.

“Well,” Jaskier sighed, shrugging his shoulders, “I would play around with you more, I really would. You’re just the sort of person I love sending out for a fools errands, to find ten leaf clovers and such, all for the fun of it. But, I regrettably don’t really have the time for it now.”

The man snarled, “that’s not you’re decision ta’ make.”

Julian rolled his eyes.

“Yes yes, scary scary, go on, tell me all the horrifying ways you’re going to dispose of my poor dead body.”

The old man’s eyes widened, “I’m not jokin’ bard,” and then his face evolved into an eerie smile, “you should have never laid eyes on my Luisa, and now you’ll never lay eyes on anythin’ ever gain’.”

“Oh you’re the worst sort, you know that,” Julian snorted, “all jealous and angry looking, can’t let a lady have a little fun.”

The man slammed Julian’s head against the wall again in response.

“Well,” Julian squinted against the pain, “it’s been lovely, truly, you make for amazing conversation, what with all the grunts and missing teeth and whatnot, but, I think it’s time for us to sadly depart.”

Julian gathered his chaos around him, drawing it close, till it caressed him, flowing around him. He could not see it, but it was there. It coalesced around him, closer now that he summoned it. He prepared it, ready to give the instruction that would make the man in front of him forget Julian ever even existed.

A regrettable waste of energy, but necessary.

Just as Julian was opening his mouth, the old unkept man spoke again.

“After you, all I have left to punish is that whore.”

Julian’s mouth snapped shut.

“What?”

The man chuckled.

“Luisa should have never even looked at ya to begin’ wit’.”

Julian stared at him, for once not joking.

The man noticed the bard’s silence, and grinned, as though thinking he finally achieved in thrusting fear into the bard’s heart.

“Oh yes, little bard, after I slice that neck of yours, I’m going to remind Luisa who she belongs to.”

The man brought his lips closer to Julian’s ears. And as he spoke, Julian smelled his rotten breath.

Julian stiffened, as the man’s check brushed his own.

“I’m going to take her,” he paused to lick his lips, “long and hard.”

“You know bard,” he continued, “I’ve been eyeing her for months, keeping track of her. I know when her shift begins, when it ends, who she talks to, who she doesn’t talk to…. when she’s alone.”

“Today was suppose ta’ be the day, but then you ruined everything.”

Even quieter still, he whispered against Julian’s ear, “I may not be her husband bard. But after tonight it won’t matta’” he chucked, “I might as well be.”

“Im gonna sink my cock into her pretty little cunt, and I hope she screams, I really like it when they scream.”

The wicked man’s eyes glinted with a cruel light, as he grew excited.

“And then I’m gonna shove my knife into her pretty little heart, just like all the others.”

He chuckled low, while Julian stared stonily ahead. 

“And then, I’ll go after another, but you won’t be here to see that happen’, bard.”

Julian’s chaos whirled around him. What was once a gentle caress in the breeze was now a full out whirlwind of fury, Whipping around him, demanding for release.

‘I’m gonna sink my cock into her pretty cunt, and I hope she screams, I really like it when they scream.’

—————————————————

“No! Please!”

Desperate eyes turned to him. Hoping for something, anything. But he could do nothing, never could do anything.

Not back then.

A man’s cruel grin.

“Keep screaming, it only excites me.”

Another soldier followed his comrade, cock already out.

“I’ve never fucked a princess before.”

And trapped in his cage, he could only look.

And later, he could only hear.

Because he could not force himself to look.

Because he was a coward.

Gripping the bars of his cage as tears dribbled out from between clenched eyelids.

It felt like a betrayal. What right did he have cry?

And she screamed. And screamed and screamed till she lost her voice, and all that would escape her were exhausted whimpers.

—————————————

He grinned, with a false ease he did not feel.

His chaos stilled around him, settling like ice on a glacier.

Instead of a whirling cloud, it became a sharpened point, focused, waiting. 

He pushed the man back with strength that made the wretch falter, till Julian was looking into his eyes.

“It must have felt exciting,” Julian whispered, a strange smile still on his face, “holding them down, having your way with them.”

And with those words, his chaos enveloped the man, settling over his eyes, his ears, and his gaze lost its focus.

“Yessss.” The man hissed, a disturbingly happy smile gracing his face.

“You must have done it to sooo many others,” Julian continued, an intensity in his voice that had been lacking before. 

“Oh yes,” the old man agreed hurriedly, nodding his head rapidly. As more chaos settled over the man, he loosened his grip on the knife, retreating from Julian’s person. 

A dopey smile stayed on his face.

Julian’s face lost all emotion, that strange smile, gone. 

“You will tell me how many others.”

And it was not a question, it was an order.

And like metal shackles, his chaos snapped shut, trapping the man’s will for Julian to mold.

“Oh,” the man slurred, “there have been so many others, so many,” he closed his eyes in euphoria.

“That I lost count.”

“But one I remember the most, was a little girl…, she struggled, but she was only ten and three years-“

And Julian could bear no more.

“SHUT UP!”

And like and iron clamp, the man’s mouth shut. He was effectively gagged.

All the while, Julian fought against his rapidly tunneling vision. Nausea burned in the throat, and his mouth filled with sticky saliva.

Julian struggled to control what remained inside his stomach. He gasped, and found he could no longer hold himself upright. 

He placed his hands against his knees as he bent over, struggling not to gag. Struggling to breathe. 

Melitle he couldn’t breathe. 

His breaths became desperate.

He fought against it, but it was for naught.

With a great heave, he vomited the meager scraps of his breakfast on the dusty ground.

He gagged long after his stomach was emptied. 

Retching bile, unable to stop. 

He took great shuddering heaves, and it was only till he felt wetness against his hands, that he realized tears were dribbling from his eyes. 

And finally, birdsong reached his deaf ears. He focused on the sound, thought only of the lilting notes, till he found he could draw a decent breath again. 

Slowly his shuddering gasps lessened.

Slowly, he was himself again. 

He shakily stood straight, never looking away from the haggard old man that was still shackled by his chaos, unable to move.

He stared, even as bits of vomit clung to his bottom lip. 

He didn’t bother wiping it away.

With him previously distracted, some of the fog from the monster’s eyes had lessened, and his eyes swiveled around in horror as he found he could not move, or talk.

As he realized he was a prisoner in his own mind.

Julian trembled, those disgusting words floating around in his head.

A little girl.

Julian snarled, and this time, it was the old man who quaked, as he finally realized the danger he was in.

But Julian forced himself to reign in his fury. He had to control it, anchor it, aim it, or he would fail in this task too, like he’d failed in so many others.

How many?

Too many to count. 

And how many more, Julian wondered, if he were allowed to continue.

The birds sung again, sounding almost out of place in the wake of such horrifying revelations.

And Julian grinned cruelly as a thought entered his mind.

The birds.

He leaned in close, till he towered over the cowering form of the haggard old man.

“Can you hear the birds singing? They’re getting ready to fly off for winter, creating songs and stories to guide their journey into frigid and uncertain lands, they’re no doubt soon to meet.”

Julian continued almost nonchalantly, but the anger in his eyes betrayed him.

The old man was not fooled, but his mouth was clamped shut, he could not utter the smallest of noises.

And like a spider’s web, his chaos closed in over the man yet again.

“I bet you’d love to fly too.”

And the man’s eyes widened in horror. His pupils dilated, till there was no color left. And as Julian leaned closer, he could see the man’s pulse racing in his neck. 

He could practically smell the terror, rolling off the man in waves.

Good.

“You are going walk back into the tavern, immediately after I tell you to leave.”

Julian circled his prisoner.

“Once you are inside, you will not look at Luisa, or any other woman or girl. You are going to walk all the way to the stairs, until you go up a floor, another floor, as many as it takes until you reach the roof.”

“And while you know you cannot fly, you are going to walk off the roof, till you fall and join the birds in their graceful and glorious flight… even if it’s only for about two seconds.”

The man’s eyes teared up, his only possible reaction to events unfolding before him.

“And I want you to be aware for every second of it. You will feel as your feet carry you to the roof, you will be aware that your last moments are trickling away. And you will be aware as the ground reaches to meet your miserable corpse.

The man started shrieking as much as he possibly could, while his mouth was still firmly held shut.

And finally Julian stopped pacing, standing resolutely in front of the man. 

“And no matter how many people many try to help you, the lengths they might go to, they will not be able to stop you, for in this endeavor, you will have the strength of ten men.”

Julian smirked. He leaned in and whispered.

“And finally, I want to hear you scream as you walk to your death.”

Julian waited for his chaos to make his words into law. 

And he needn’t wait long.

His chaos smothered itself over its prisoner for a final time, cementing and creating a new reality, ensuring his order would be carried out. 

And with his will heard, the man was finally able to to speak, his first sounds after being forced to be quiet for so long, erupting as horrifying wails. 

“No! No! Please let me go! DEMON, IVE BEEN CAPTURED BY A DEMON!”

He made a pitiful figure, mouth opened wide and wailing. Tears pooling in his eyes, eventually over flowing, trailing over roughened skin.

Julian wondered how many others had suffered in such a way, because of this man. 

Julian let him beg a while longer. Relished it in fact. He was enjoying it so much, that he could not help but smile as the man’s screams turned into gags, as he nearly vomited from the horror of what was about to happen. 

Julian hoped he choked on it, on his way to the ground.

“Now leave.”

And with a hysterical shriek, the man’s legs began walking against their owner’s will. Step by step.

Like a marionette, his body was not his to control.

And with every step he took, the man’s screams grew louder and more desperate.

Julian watched his retreating back, his clumsy, jolting steps carrying him further away. 

“NOOO,” He wailed, grotesquely turning his neck as far as possible, as though that would make his legs go another direction. “MELITLE HELP ME, IM SORRY! IM SORRY! I DON’T WANT TO DIE!”

He whined like a beaten dog, great heaving sobs shaking his frame as he walked closer to the tavern. His hysterics were so great, snot dribbled from his nose, and his eyes became red from crying.

Soon, a small crowd of people gathered outside, as they watched this strange man scream about not wanting to go into the tavern, while resolutely walking into the tavern.

And it seems Julian over estimated the the people in there, because not a single one tried to aid him. All they did was stare suspiciously, and in some cases, in confusion, as the man walked further and further into the tavern.

Julian lost sight of him for a moment. But he was confident in his chaos, and the growing screams of the cursed old man let his ears follow him, when his eyes could not. 

And finally, the man, for he was a man, and Julian never bothered in asking his name, made his way to the roof. 

The small crowd of people, in their curiosity, or perhaps their morbidness, formed a group outside, drawn out by the strange man screaming on the roof. 

“NOOOOOO, NOOOOOOO, STOP HIM, STOP HIM HE’S A DEVIL! A DEVIL!”

His steps gradually drew him closer to the edge of the roof, and the crowd below began to gasp in horror. A couple of the men began to dash back into the tavern, finally spurred into action. 

But, Julian noted, it was far too late. By the time they made their way onto the roof….

Well.

Julian giggled, and he quickly snapped his hand against his mouth, hoping it looked like he was holding back a gasp of horror rather than a laugh.

“IVE BEEN CURSED, IVE BEEN CURSED! I DON’T WANT TO DIE, I DON’T WANNA DIE!”

But finally, one step, was one step too far.

The man fell like a stone, still screaming all the way.

And with a wet and loud snap, his body crashed against the ground.

His horrendous wails finally drew to a halt.

And all that was left was an eerie silence. 

Until screams from the on lookers erupted, as they ran to the body. Some screamed for help, but it was in vain.

Julian felt the moment the man’s heart stopped its frenzied beating, his chaos forced from the lifeless husk.

And as more and more people rushed towards that unworthy corpse, Julian smiled, satisfied with the late man’s fate. He turned his back, and walked away, his lute strapped securely against his back.

Just before he left, he noticed a knife on the ground.

He paused, knelt, picked it up, and tucked it into a spare pocket of his sack.

One never knew when a spare knew would come in handy.

He set off. There was no more time to waste.

After all, he had Witcher to catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... how’d that turn out huh.... please leave a review or comment. Tell me if Jaskier’s a bit too dark. It’s hard characterizing him this way.


	6. In the name of Justice and Hypocrisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took a while. I'm not really satisfied with this chapter, but It's been sitting in my documents for so long, I thought I might as well post it.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it.

It was a beautiful night, all things considered. The moon was high and full. There was a soft breeze blowing through the placid night air.

One could almost forgive the sounds of tearing flesh, and the waterfall of blood pooling onto the grass below.

It was strange, Jaskier thought, how a life proved itself to be no more than a gathering of sinew and bone. Slowly, as it came apart in front of him, he could not help but be mesmerized by the bloody display of physiology. The way one muscle connected to the bone, and how it stretched over two ligaments.

It was fascinating.

The “ _Great Great of Rivia_ ”, he thought sardonically, The “ _Butcher of Blaviken_ ”, no more than a soon to be pile of meat at his feet.

He wondered if his sister ever dreamt of such a visage. He wondered if she stood at his shoulder now, content in her justice.

‘Well,’ he thought, ‘I wouldn’t know.’

Renfri _was_ always the one with the visions.

The Witcher looked like his sister did when he found her.

Her corpse.

In a particular morbid fashion, Jaskier found it suited Geralt, to resemble his sister in her last moments. A piece of forgotten flesh at someone’s feet.

Peering back so far into his memory was difficult, like trying to read text through the bottom of a glass bottle of ale. The memories closest to Renfri’s death were always the dimmest.

It was like watching someone entirely different to him.

He remembered a crowd gathering around him.

“Wake up Renfri,” he’d said, and he’d smiled, because he’d finally found her. He’d finally found her, so she could wake up now.

Such a stupid thing to say in retrospect, but then again, he’d always been an idiot before.

Idiot Julian. Naive Julian. Blind and deaf Julian, to not hear the shuddering breaths of the crowd around him. This wasn’t a woman passed out from a drink the night before, waiting to be roused. This was a half decomposed corpse falling apart in the heat of the morning sun.

But he’d been so weak before, his sad little mind slow to accept the inevitable.

Couldn’t separate his sister from the empty shell in front of him.

Some part of himself at the time had known, felt the truth long ago, when a void disappeared from the world one morning.

He’d woken up feeling wrong. And some part of himself had known, had grieved, but he’d always been an expert liar.

And sometimes, the person he lied the best to, was himself.

He’d dragged himself all the way to Blaviken. Unwilling to admit defeat until he saw the truth with his very own eyes.

He didn’t remember what happened after he saw Renfri.

His next memory was waking up with a pile of hay underneath his head.

He’d woken, and he’d walked. All he’d done was walk.

Back to Blaviken, because as long as he had a purpose, he could force one foot in front of the other.

On that long walk, his life became a series of facts.

He knew his sister was dead, and perhaps he should have been worried by how little he felt.

His sister was dead, but birds still sang, flowers still blew in the breeze, and Julian still walked.

And with this new gory vision in front of him, he found himself reminiscing on the one before.

In the midst of his thoughts, a warm droplet dribbled down his cheek.

He frowned.

He brushed his hand against his cheek, expecting a smear of blood on the back of his hands. (Although deep inside, he knew it wasn’t possible. Geralt was too far away.)

Only to be met with a glistening droplet, clear in the moonlight.

His breath hitched.

He wasn’t sad.

This was a victory.

A success.

He lifted his head to look at the massacre below, tried to find joy in it.

Because what was down there wasn’t a human.

His hands shook.

It wasn’t even a being. It didn’t feel.

A scream ripped through the air.

His breath shuddered through clenched teeth as he repeated that sentence in his mind over and over like a prayer.

‘It didn’t feel.’

His eye twitched, and another unexplainable tear traitorously slithered down his cheek.

It didn’t hurt.

The Witcher below howled, a yell that seemingly tore through his throat…. And Jaskier flinched.

More gurgling and tearing followed that scream, as the Alghouls continued their bloody meal.

But that didn’t matter. He wasn’t human…. He was a monster, and monsters didn’t feel.

He couldn’t feel.

Jaskier couldn’t let himself shake. He couldn’t let his heart pound and tremble, and couldn’t let his mind scream. He couldn’t let the black tidal wave inside of him smother him alive, because he’d held on for so long, and he’d finally achieved his long desired goal.

He couldn’t let himself feel.

Because he just couldn’t, because it was done, because…

And almost unbidden, again, memories crashed into him like a tidal wave.

Geralt, (because no matter how much he tried to convince himself, his name was Geralt, not _it._ ) pulling the covers over his shoulders when he thought he was asleep.

Geralt, giving him his extra rations despite Jaskier knowing full well how hungry he was.

And Jaskier whimpered and pulled at his hair because it _just didn’t make sense._

And not only did it not make sense, it _wasn’t goddam fair!_

And he’d been doing so well. The ice in his veins keeping his mind clear, focused. The same ice accompanying him as he walked back to Blaviken, intent on wringing the truth out of anyone, by any means possible.

He knew what needed to be done, the only path forward. A life for a life. But now it was all fucking ruined, because in the end he thought it wouldn’t matter. Yet it did, and now it was tearing him apart.

He didn’t dare feel this way.

His chest heaved and he dragged in gasping breaths.

All those years of planning and calculating, and forcing himself. He didn’t dare feel this way now.

Another scream rent through the air and he desperately smashed his hands against his ears because he didn’t want to hear, he didn’t want to listen to what he’d done. He shoved his chin against his chest and shut his eyes, because he didn’t want to see the gory mess in front of him.

Julian crowed in triumph, but Jaskier trembled before what he’d done.

And he’d been Jaskier so long, he’d clung to that façade with his dying breath because for the first time in a long time-

Jaskier whimpered.

-for the first time in a long time, he’d felt different. He felt like he was a part of something. And all this time, following the Witcher, all this time he’d told himself that he was fooling the creature. That he’d done it all to make him suffer the worst betrayal he could.

That laughing and smiling as Geralt spoke to Roach like a person, was alright. Because that joy was excusable. That type of emotion was for his goal, for a purpose, not a betrayal to his sister.

But all this time, he’d been fooling himself too.

And instead of ending this himself, staring Geralt in the eye as he did the unforgivable, he’d thrown him to some other monster to be torn apart, because if it was left to him.

If it was left to him.

And he shuddered as he finally admitted the truth to himself.

Then he would never have been able to do it at all.

Jaskier sobbed and pulled at his hair harder. There was just so much fucking screaming, and why the fuck hadn’t he died already, why the fuck WAS HE STILL SUFFERING, WHY WOULDN’T HE SHUT UP!

He made the mistake of looking down, and immediately gagged. Chunks of bone and flesh, the smooth surface of organs. Everything he did not want to think about.

And he was still alive.

Geralt was still alive, he was still suffering.

Jaskier grit his teeth and wailed like the monster he was, and he couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t live with himself if he let Geralt die.

He couldn’t live with himself if he let Geralt live.

Jaskier screamed, a throat aching wail that he barely recognized coming from himself, and extended his palm.

The creatures below diverted their attention towards him. Their cruel blood marked mouths salivated, with the introduction of a possible new meal.

But it didn’t matter.

His chaos curled around him, angry and pulsing, and suffering, and wailing.

It had been waiting for so long now. Whirling around him in response to everything around him.

But it knew what it wanted done.

What Jaskier wanted done.

“No more,” his voice shook.

And the fates obeyed.

It was almost relief, to end the blood bath they started.

And the ground trembled as his chaos lifted branches and sticks from the ground, whirling around until they found their mark.

Between the eyes of the creatures below.

They shrieked in pain and surprise, but it was over soon.

They barely had time to react.

Brains and bits of bone flew through the air, smattering tree trunks, and coloring green bushy leaves a dirty brown. The creature’s shrieks quickly became wails of pain.

And in all the whirlwind of blood and brains around him, he stumbled down the hill, grasping at twigs and tree trunks as his feet failed to keep him steady, gasping because he didn’t know what he was doing.

And in all the death around him, as another monster was impaled two feet away from him, he could only stare at the bloodied body of the witcher in front of him.

He absently felt a splatter of blood splash against his cheek.

He stared at Geralt until his vision blurred, and he felt another warmth trickle down his cheeks.

“This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go,” he gasped, a sneer forming on his face. He stalked closer, his fists clenched so hard, he felt his nails dig into his flesh.

“You weren’t supposed to be this way.”

It was almost a betrayal of the fates, thought Jaskier. This was a tale so convoluted, so ridiculous, he almost laughed at how giddy his past self would have been, to have access to such a tragedy.

He would have written it into song, embellishing here and there, but the core of the tragedy always there, always present.

A murderer punishing another murderer.

A monster righteously punishing another monster, as if the first monster didn’t already have a smattering of blood on his hands.

It would have been a somber tale, filled with twists and turns, and oh, how Jaskier’s fingers would have tingled before, to have a story like that.

How ridiculous.

Because in the end, who was he to weigh the heft of Geralt’s sin’s against his own.

And Jaskier didn’t care that Geralt was unconscious, that his eyes were closed. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered, because the world wasn’t right.

He shouldn’t feel like his chest was being crushed, for his fucking sister’s murderer.

In a burst of anger and rage, his foot flew before his mind registered the action, kicking the prone witcher in the face.

And the ice in his veins melted.

“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE A MONSTER,” he shrieked, his heart resuming a different beat.

“A KILLER, A FUCKING MURDERER!”

He kicked him again, not finding any kind of satisfaction, but for some reason, he was unable to stop. And all the while, he screamed and cried, as thought Geralt could hear him.

He kicked him for everything Geralt was.

He kicked him for everything he wasn't.

Finally he stopped and gasped, struggling to regain his breath.

He stared at Geralt’s face as he gasped, his perfect, unblemished, limp face, and suddenly couldn’t stop himself from falling. The ground felt damp and spongy under his hands. He wondered if it was the rain or the blood that made the texture so.

He felt his mouth curl into something, a grin or grimace he didn’t know.

His chest began hitching as painful chuckles were ripped out of him.

For all his kicking, Geralt’s face was perfect.

He laughed even harder, uncaring as more tears escaped from his eyes.

It all meant nothing.

All his kicking and screaming.

All of **_this._**

**_All the mess he'd made of this._ **

It was all for naught.

The creeping edge of hysteria only settled heavier over him. Tightening it claws around him, to the point where he could barely stay on his knees with how strong his laughter was.

But it had to stop. It all had to stop.

He took a desperate heave, and stood back to his feet so quickly, his vision tunneled for a moment.

He struggled to balance himself, before returning his gaze towards the Witcher.

He took one shaky step, and then another. Both of them, drawing him closer to the Witcher.

He circled the limp form in front of him, body shaking the entire time.

“You were supposed to be cruel!” he whispered, feeling obtusely betrayed.

His face stretching into a bitter smile, before curling to bare his teeth, as he rushed into a kneel, and gripped the front of Geralt’s bloodied armor and shook him.

And for some reason, the limp loll of Geralt’s head only made him angrier.

He left go of Geralt’s armor as though it burned him.

“NOT SOME FUCKING HORSE WHISPERER!”

He sobbed, and dropped to his knees again.

“You were supposed kill me,” he babbled, and his chest hitched as great hiccuping sobs ripped out of him.

He felt like they were dragged out of him, as if they threatened to rip his heart out of his chest.

He remembered baiting the Witcher outside of Posada. Waiting, half hoping that the rumored monster would spear him through for the disrespect. But it never happened. A small part of Jaskier became bitterly disappointed that day.

“YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME CARE ABOUT YOU!” Jaskier rasped, out of breath, but unable to stop.

“You weren’t supposed to take care of me.”

“you weren’t supposed to save me that day.”

“You weren’t supposed to be kind!”

And he remembered that kindness, for it could not be mistaken for anything else, with which Geralt shielded him from the worst of the elf’s blows. The way he’d argued for Jaskier to be released.

Back then he’d refused to see it for what it was.

He’d refused to consider that Geralt could care, and could love, and could feel.

And despite that fool of a man’s way of trying to cover how much he truly and wholeheartedly cared, Jaskier was able to see it all. He was able to feel it all.

By all the gods, he wished he’s never felt it at all.

He sniffled, and slowly, tentatively, placed a hand over the ruined flesh of Geralt’s chest, right over his heart.

He felt the muted heartbeat there, and for the first time in years, willed it to never stop.

His hand lay almost reverentially over Geralt’s bruised flesh.

It felt like a touch he didn’t deserve.

All this time, he’d tried so hard to fit the image of a monster over Geralt, tried to shove the wrong piece into a puzzle, that he’d completely missed the biggest truth of all.

That it wasn’t Geralt that was the monster.

It was him.

His lips stretched into a broken smile.

“What am I even doing?”

He chuckled bitterly, as more tears dribbled from his eyes.

“I don’t even know anymore.”

And despite the silence around him, his chaos understood, cocooning Geralt in healing warmth as gory bites and scratches faded away, as though wiped away by an invisible eraser.

Almost immediately, the witcher began to breathe easier. Color returned to his cheeks, and the pulse under Jaskier’s palm beat with strength anew.

The Witcher’s brow furrowed, as though only now beginning to feel his discomfort.

“Shhh,” cautioned Jaskier, and he brushed a gentle thumb over Geralt’s brows, flattening any wrinkles.

As though recognizing that touch, Geralt’s struggles immediately settled.

“Shhhhhh,” he continued.

He swallowed, fighting the dryness in his throat, and removed his hand from the gentle caress at Geralt’s face.

Warm liquid trickled down his nose, a crimson river down his front.

“Too much chaos”, he thought, “far too soon.”

His head began to pound along with his pulse, but he couldn’t sleep yet.

He couldn’t let Geralt wake up. Not to this.

He couldn’t let him see what he truly was.

Geralt would live.

Jaskier felt relief, and let his eyes close.

Geralt would get to live another day.

He couldn’t forgive him, Jaskier realized, would probably never be able to forgive Geralt for his sister’s death.

_‘But,’_ Jaskier thought, as his eyes opened with new resolve, _‘I’m done being the fates’ executioner._ ’

Besides, he doubted Geralt would ever forgive him for this anyway.

Yes, Geralt would get to live.

But as for Jaskier.

Jaskier eyed the silver sword lying bloodied and discarded a foot away from its master’s hand.

Jaskier’s story was at an end.

He stumbled to his feet.

His legs quivered, both from emotional turmoil he’d repressed for the better part of a decade, and the magical strain he’d been forced to burden.

But his goal was clear.

He wrapped a sweaty hand around the pommel, studiously ignoring the pendant that lay on the handle of the other sword. That other sword made of steel.

No, that sword wouldn’t suffice in this case.

And that pendant.

That pendant no longer belonged to him.

He gripped the pommel of the silver sword tighter, until he hefted in aloft, grunting with the strain.

His arms burned, as he’d greatly underestimated the weight of the silver blade.

He finally let the sword drop, his arms to weak to hold it up for long.

Luckily, strength wasn’t required for the function he wanted the blade to serve.

He slowly began to shuffle his way back to where Geralt was laying, the tip of the silver sword dragging on the muddy ground.

Finally, he reached Geralt’s side, and dropped heavily onto his knees.

He stayed there, simply stayed there unmoving, watching his breath fog up in front of him as a result of the chilly air. He closed his eyes. Let himself dream.

He pretended that he was just a normal bard. He pretended that he’d stumbled onto his friend’s misfortune. He imagined his panicked screaming. He imagined his heartfelt cries as he called for help from the nearest town.

He imagined waiting for his Witcher to wake up, finally safe and warm in the heat of an inn.

He imagined Geralt’s angry gaze, trying so hard not to appear worried, but in the end, he always was.

Jaskier imagined brushing off his encounter with death, and the both of them traveling to a new adventure.

Geralt would try not to smile as Jaskier made a disgusting, yet lyrically clever song. And Jaskier.

Well, Jaskier would bask in the warmth of his friend’s company. Free from any darkness or grief. He would follow Geralt anywhere, so long as he would have him.

Jaskier opened his eyes, and clenched the pommel of the sword tighter between his hands.

It was a good dream.

But a dream nonetheless.

Because Geralt’s near brush with death was all his fault, not due to some hunt gone awry.

And he wasn’t a normal bard, he wasn’t even human. He’d never been human.

He was an abomination, a thing. A miserable creature so poisonous, he’d murdered his own mother on the day of his birth.

And If Geralt were to know, then he would never forgive him. Geralt would cleave his head from his shoulders, like he’d done for so many monsters before him.

Like he’d done with his sister.

It was just the way of things.

It was now that Jaskier hoped he could relieve the Witcher of such a burden.

He turned the sword towards him, holding it steady till the tip of the blade lay on the skin over his heart.

Jaskier snorted as as he remembered an occasion when Geralt tried to teach him the way of the blade.

As if Jaskier didn’t have blood on his hands already.

As if Jaskier didn’t already know how to decapitate a man’s head in at least ten different ways.

“Stick em’ with the pointy end, Jaskier,” Julian mimicked Geralt’s deep growl.

A startled laugh burst out of him, the blade accidentally nicking him.

A trail of blood fled from the shallow cut.

The blade initially felt cool against his chest. However, a couple of seconds later, and any skin surrounded by the silver began to burn and blister.

Confirming what he’d known all along.

“Silver for monsters,” he whispered, a crumbled smile adorning his face as he proceeded to shove the silver blade straight through his traitorous heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh, well, how about that. By the way, Jaskier was never meant to be this dramatic, but her just took on a life of his own, what can I say *shrugs*
> 
> Also, this chapter was meant to go up waaaaaaaayyyyy later in the story, after a lot of more backstory, butttt, I felt like you guys deserved some quality time with the original main characters. So the following chapters are just gonna be a lot of backstory before we get back to Geralt and Jaskier in the present.
> 
> If you guys liked this chapter, please comment.
> 
> Hope you all have a wonderful Sunday!

**Author's Note:**

> This one was tough. This is my first time writing anything story related, and is consequently my first fanfic. Whheeewww, this took a week write, and was way longer than what i expected it to be. 
> 
> Also, can I just say..... dialogue is hard.
> 
> Also, writing Geralt is hard.
> 
> (Comments are like cookies, there can never be too many, and incentivize the writer to post more)
> 
> Please feel free to post any theories... there are certainly several clues littered throughout the story.
> 
> This story should be updated every Saturday.
> 
> No character death, I pinkie promise. 
> 
> \- Adelia


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